


Redistribution

by asocialconstruct



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 4F, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Cunnilingus, Divorce, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gangbang, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Sexism, Smoking, Spitroasting, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 71,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asocialconstruct/pseuds/asocialconstruct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some short pieces set in <a href="http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com/">stoatsandwich's</a> <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/237648">4F AU</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [4F](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316277) by [stoatsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoatsandwich/pseuds/stoatsandwich). 



> This started out as a series of vaguely connected pieces and should probably be a series, but oh well. I suggest reading stoat's [4F fics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/237648) first, but if you don't, the basic premise is that Steve never gets the serum and his 4F status means his only option for military service is as a military prostitute, where he eventually gets assigned to the Howling Commandoes and meets Bucky, having not grown up with Bucky. Bucky got the serum at Azzano and busted himself and the Howling Commandoes out instead of getting rescued by Steve.
> 
> Since this is a bunch of disconnected pieces that jump around in time, see the endnote for chapter details.

They give him his own tent at first, like he’s an officer or out of some misplaced sense of propriety.  It lasts about a week into the first mission, when Sergeant Barnes notices him struggling to keep up on the march, calls a halt and redistributes the extra weight out of his pack to everyone else.  The double weight of the extra tent goes into Barnes’ pack and doesn’t come back out when they make camp that night. 

Usually they bunk Barnes with Dugan, Falsworth with Morita, and Jones with Dernier, but one of them is always on watch at night anyway, so Barnes says Steve’ll just rotate to the spare bed.  He says it’ll make less work for everyone, with one less tent to put up and take down, and he doesn’t say that it’ll make more work for Steve, with being on duty every night.  But it’s a forward posting, and they’re all on duty all the time, so he doesn’t complain.

No one says anything when it ends up that Steve is in Barnes’ bed two nights out of seven because of the way the rotation works out.  Fair’s fair, and Barnes is the NCO.  Officer’s prerogative, even if he’s not really an officer.

They’re hard to keep separate at first, because Steve has never had to remember from one soldier to the next who likes what because it never mattered.  Dugan likes his mouth, Falsworth likes things gentler than the rest.  Jones likes to spoon, Morita likes him on top, and Dernier mostly just runs his hands over Steve’s back and mumbles French into his hair until they both fall asleep.  Steve knows just enough French to catch that Dernier is praying his rosary, and wonders what his mother would think about where he’s saying his Hail Marys these days.

Barnes is a mystery.  He’s a hard man, frightening in his grimness when Steve’s seen them in combat or immediately after.  The first time they come back from real trouble since Steve’s joined them, they limp back to the rendezvous point and Barnes pulls Steve out into the forest while the rest collapse and set to patching each other up.

Barnes’ hand on his arm is too tight, and Steve expects to get shoved down and fucked rough as soon as they’re out of sight of the others.  Barnes has about a hundred pounds on him and a foot of height, so it might hurt, but probably not any worse than the end of a rush hour shift.  He’s got slick in his pocket if Barnes gives him time to use it.  Steve had figured this was a possibility when he finally realized what he’d volunteered himself for, and Barnes hasn’t been rough with him before.

So he’s not ready for it when Barnes shoves him against a tree and drops to his knees, making quick work of Steve’s belt.  Steve’s never been on this side of it before, choking down a little surprised noise when the sergeant pulls Steve’s half-hard cock out and flashes him a smile, then suddenly there’s not much to think about at all because his cock is in Barnes’ mouth.

Steve usually keeps his eyes closed when he’s on his knees, because most soldiers don’t like the reminder that he’s not a girl.  His regulation short hair is usually bad enough when they put hands on his head, but most of them can ignore that if he does his job well enough.  But he can’t keep his eyes off Barnes after that smile, and Barnes catches him looking when he glances up at Steve through his dark lashes.  Barnes has a cruel streak in him, sucking him deep without breaking eye contact, then pulling back slowly with a last flick of his tongue to leave Steve bobbing there in the cold air.

“Breath, Rogers,” Barnes says, and Steve barely obeys before Barnes’ mouth is back on him.  The contrast is so sudden and hot that he has to muffle the noise with his hand, because the sergeant must have brought him out away from the others because he didn’t want them to know Steve wasn’t the only one good on his knees.  Barnes grips the base of Steve’s cock with another look up at him as he curls his tongue over the head, and that’s it, he doesn’t even have time to warn Barnes before he’s coming embarrassingly soon, but Barnes doesn’t seem to mind, swallowing it away.  

Steve catches his breath while Barnes tugs him down to straddle the sergeant’s lap, and this doesn’t go the way he’s expecting either.  Barnes is hard, but he just leans his head on Steve’s shoulder and guides Steve’s hand to his cock, clutching him almost too close while Steve jerks him off.  He’s done quickly too and then they’re just sitting there with pine needles stuck to everything, Barnes burying his face in Steve’s shoulder.

The girls had gotten most of the criers back at the Auxiliary Station, so he doesn’t know what to do when Barnes’ breath hitches and catches.  But it’s over almost as soon as it starts, and then Barnes is pulling them both up to put themselves back together, and they walk back to camp with the sergeant’s arm slung over Steve’s narrow shoulders like it had just been a quick fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

The sergeant is triumphant with it when he comes back to base, smile broad when he finds them in the barracks.  Steve is sleepy and loose-jointed after a round each with Morita and Dernier and two with Dugan, since their R&R means more work for him, but he smiles over his shoulder at the sergeant looking like the cat that got the cream.  One more round with the sergeant won’t make much difference, since his breakfast is going to be around lunch anyway and Falsworth already brought him coffee.  Dugan eases Steve off his lap with a huff that’s supposed to sound annoyed, but just comes out sounding fond.

“Got you a present, Rogers,” Sergeant Barnes says, and Steve wants to die when Barnes brings the thing out of his coat pocket because Steve's lying there leaking come and everyone’s there to see it.  Steve sits up and curls in on himself, surprised that he has any shame left.

“Sorry, sergeant,” Steve says, trying for formal and painfully aware that he’s naked and none of them are, so it’s not like he can stand to attention and he wants to _die_.  He scrubs a hand through his hair, knows that he should be looking Barnes in the eye but unable to make himself do it.  He’s been careful about keeping sanitary, but there’s six of them and sometimes they don’t give him time to clean up between, so sometimes the douche syringe goes unused.  “Sorry, I’ll go clean up.  It won’t happen again,” Steve says, and they’re all looking at him and he can’t look at anyone as he starts to get up.  It’s the first time he regrets taking this assignment, but there wouldn’t be anything to regret if he’d been more careful.

“I—what?  What’re you sorry for, Rogers?” Barnes asks, and Morita saves him from having to answer.

“That’s from an enema kit, you moron,” Morita says, and Steve freezes when Barnes curses and crosses the room to him in two steps, tossing the water bottle on the bed to fold Steve into his arms.  He smells like cigarettes and gun oil.

“Fuck, Rogers, I—your feet are always cold, that’s all.  It’s just a hot water bottle.”

Steve relaxes a little, but not much.  It’s uncomfortable, being around these men for longer than the fifteen minutes they would get at the pro station, and he’s unsure of himself and what they expect from him.  Especially Barnes.  None of the rest have ever put arms around him, but Barnes does it like he doesn’t even think about it.  “Sorry I put cold feet on you, sergeant,” Steve finally says to Barnes’ coat pocket.

Barnes makes a strangled noise.  “Shut up, Rogers.  Go get dressed for lunch before these apes maul you again.”  He pushes Steve away, and Steve catches the sergeant’s embarrassed smile before he goes to grab his clothes.

“Most fellas just go with flowers, sarge,” Dugan mutters, and Barnes flushes to the roots of his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Barnes is the first one to kiss him.  By that time, Steve’s had his mouth all over every one of them, it shouldn’t be such a surprise.  Morita likes his nipples licked, Dernier likes him to suck dark bruises on the inside of his thighs before Steve blows him.  Falsworth never says it, but his breath catches if Steve bites his ear towards the end of things.  Jones and Dugan both kiss up and down the back of Steve’s neck when they’re fucking him, noses pressed under his ear.  It’s just that none of them had ever wanted Steve’s mouth on theirs, and no wonder, with everywhere else it’s been.

He’s flat on his back with Barnes above him, because Barnes is gentler than the soldiers at the pro station, and Steve doesn’t worry about Barnes fucking him too deep.  Not after Barnes sent him to medical for a little blood.  It’s a quiet night and cold, and Steve’s got his legs wrapped around the sergeant’s waist as much to keep his feet warm as anything else, with Barnes’ square hands spread on his hips.  He’s close enough to come if Barnes would give him enough room to put a hand on his own cock, but Barnes is taking it slow and it’s pleasant enough, so Steve rolls his hips up and kisses dark marks along Barnes’ collarbone.

He hums into it when Barnes puts a hand on his face and smooths a callused thumb over Steve’s lips for him to suck.  Out of all of them, Barnes likes to watch the most, and he likes eye contact, so Steve looks at him when he sucks Barnes’ thumb into his mouth.  He can see Barnes’ eyes widen in the dark, and then Barnes’ mouth is on his and Steve forgets to close his eyes.  

Barnes finally puts a hand on Steve’s cock and lifts him up off the bedroll with his other hand, fucking him in short sharp strokes without breaking the kiss.  Steve comes first, moaning into Barnes’ mouth until Barnes breaks it to bite his lip.

“Sorry,” Barnes huffs into Steve’s hair after, settling with Steve tucked against his chest.  “Sorry, should have asked first.”

“‘Sokay,” Steve mumbles, because it is, and it’s not like there’s that much difference between having the sergeant’s cock in him and having his tongue in his mouth.  “‘Sokay, I liked it.”  Barnes laughs at that and kisses him again.


	4. Chapter 4

Usually he tries to give Rogers the afternoons off when they're at base, but it's pissing down rain and there's not a fuck of a lot else to do.  He's not exactly looking for the kid, but he's not  _not_ looking either, and Bucky tells himself that he's not crowding Rogers' free time because it's not like he's looking for a fuck.

As soon as he finds Rogers, he wishes he hadn't. “You’re sweet on her,” Bucky says, coming up behind where Rogers is sitting out of the rain.

It’s obvious that Rogers didn’t hear him come up, from the way the kid turns bright red and snaps the sketchbook shut, but not fast enough to keep Bucky from seeing the sketch of Agent Carter.  It’s not fair, because Rogers can't hear on one side and there’s a reason Bucky’s a sniper, but life’s not fair.  He shouldn’t have said it, maybe, but he’s an asshole and can’t help the little feeling of betrayal that Carter’s in there now, alongside sketches of him and the boys and Rogers’ blue drawings he’d done for _them_ , in a notebook _Bucky_ had found for him.  She has no right to be in there. She's never done anything for Rogers besides look gorgeous and treat him like he has as much right to talk in debriefings as anyone else.

Bucky knew Carter had taken a shine to Rogers, with his _yes ma’am_ attitude and the way he can remember and sketch out any map or piece of Hydra tech he sees when they report back for debriefing.  Bucky doesn’t mind that, because it makes him look good to have an auxiliary who can pull his weight in the field when the Army thought it was a slap in the face to saddle them with a fairy and a sickly one at that, but he’d never figured it would go the other way. There just hadn't been any part of Rogers that had been private, until this.

He doesn’t like what it says about him that he cares.

He sits down heavily beside Rogers, even though it looks like Rogers would rather one or both of them were anywhere else, but Bucky’s what passes for in charge in the Howlies and he can be an asshole anywhere he wants. He can hear Carter somewhere nearby, the sound of her carrying through canvas.  He can't decide if he hates more the thought that Rogers picked the spot because he could catch a glimpse of Carter without the Howlies spotting him, or the thought that there isn't anywhere on base to get away from Carter.

“Aren’t you—y'know?” Bucky asks with a wave of his hand, leaving the word unspoken between them.

“Are you?” Rogers demands, sharper than his usual.  Which, okay, Bucky had taken him away from the others a few more times since that first time, but he’d never done that before the war and he figured Rogers had, seeing as one of them was an auxiliary and one of them wasn’t.

When he doesn’t answer, Rogers stands with his sketchbook under his arm and his back stiff.  “I’ve got washing up to do, if you’ll excuse me, sergeant.”  Bucky knows that’s a damn lie and he thinks about telling Rogers to sit his ass down and answer the question for longer than he’s proud of.  He thinks about dragging Rogers off and fucking him til he forgets all about Carter for longer than he’s proud of too, but he finally dismisses Rogers, because what the hell does Bucky care if the kid's sweet on some skirt half the camp is gone about anyway.  Not like it means anything, because Rogers'll never have a chance at her anyway.

The next time he sees the sketchbook, when they’re all drinking and stupid and passing around Rogers, a bottle, and the sketchbook full of blue drawings, the sketch of Carter is torn out of it.  Bucky doesn’t like what it says about him that he’s glad.

* * *

He’s an asshole.  He’s an asshole and he hates himself for it, but he can’t stop himself as soon as Carter steps into the pub in that red dress and heads straight for Rogers.

It had taken paperwork, miles of paperwork to get Bucky officially assigned as Rogers’ minder and chaperone on top of being his CO just so that they could take little Stevie Rogers off base drinking with the rest of them.  As if anyone was going to get him drunk and take advantage of him besides _them_.  And the paperwork is probably how Carter knows where to find them and he hates her for it.  That Rogers might have told her himself doesn’t even cross his mind until later.

The way it’s supposed to go is Steve’s tipsy halfway through his second beer while the rest of them are onto their third round of what passes for whiskey, and if Bucky's not feeling it these days, making do with getting Rogers drunk isn't a bad consolation.  He’s pink-cheeked and getting sloppy enough that he might finally loosen his tie, because for all that he spreads out naked for them when it’s _just_ them, he buttons up tight and regulation when they’re off base.  With the rest of them unwashed and unshaven, rolling out of the woods and into the nearest bar, it looks like Rogers is the officer, and people sometimes treat him like it until they notice the insignia on his collar and shoulders.  When Bucky’s being honest with himself, he likes it that way, that Steve looks tight as a nun and it’s only Bucky and the Howlies that get to peel him out of his uniform and see the face he makes when he’s being fucked senseless.

So when he takes Rogers to the bar to help carry back another beer and a round of shots, he’s got his hand on Rogers’ thigh when he catches the flash of Carter’s red dress at the door.  Rogers follows his look and fucking _lights up_ , like the rest of the night's been an obligation but Carter's the show stopper.  Which she is, and every head in the place turns for her even though she's headed straight for Rogers with that red skirt flicking behind her.

That’s when Bucky steps in.  He can tell himself later that it's to keep Rogers from getting his heart broken, because Rogers is blushing and fidgeting already and Bucky _knows_ the kid has never fucked a woman even if Rogers has never said.  He can tell himself all that later, even though he knows as he does it that that's not why he does it.  Carter’s gorgeous, and there’s no way she’s there just to dance with Rogers.

Except, of course, she is.

She looks right through Bucky and then her and Rogers _are_ dancing, and Bucky hates her because they look good together.  Dugan and Jones and the rest howl and clap for Rogers, because he’s a good dancer and he’s a good dancer because _Carter_  fucking leads and Rogers takes to it like he takes to sucking dick: effortlessly, and loving every second of it.  Rogers’ face is practically even with her bosom and Bucky would be jealous if not for the other ugly jealousy coiled in his chest.

He pulls Rogers out of there as soon as the song is over, with an apology to Carter about auxiliaries’ curfew time that he knows she doesn’t buy, but he doesn’t care.  He frog marches Rogers all the way back to base himself, both of them silent because Rogers knows exactly what this is about.

He shoves Rogers into the barracks a little rougher than he might have meant to in a better mood.  Rogers stumbles but doesn't fall, not that Bucky would have let him. He's not that kind of monster yet.

“You got no right,” Rogers says in the dark when it’s just them.  His voice is quiet and even and he shakes off Bucky's hand on his arm like he doesn’t give a damn what Bucky'll do to him.  “It was only dancing, you’ve got no right.”  He can’t see Rogers’ face in the dark, and he doesn’t like what it says about him that he’s glad of it.

Bucky stands there silent for so long that Rogers breaks the silence again, and this time it’s obvious that Rogers is crying even if he hasn’t moved a muscle.  “Were you going to fuck me or not, _sergeant_?” Rogers snarls, still not looking at him.  Bucky had thought about fucking him, but not now, not with that in his voice and Bucky regrets ever telling Rogers to call him anything else because Rogers has no illusions about what this is and Bucky had been stupid enough to pretend about it.

“Go to sleep, Rogers," Bucky says finally.  "Keep the hysterics under control next time,” he adds, and knows it's cruel, and leaves Rogers there alone in the barracks.

* * *

He could say no.

He’s Rogers’ CO and his minder, and he’s got discretion to not sign off on it even if Carter did file all the right paperwork.  She’s clean, up to date on her exams, and she’s got regulation rubbers.  She’s an officer and she’s beautiful and Rogers is sweet on her.  He doesn’t even need a reason to say no, he could just forget the paperwork in a trashcan somewhere.

He’s an asshole, and Carter’s beautiful, and Rogers is sweet on her.  He doesn’t look at what he’s putting his signature to when he finally approves Rogers’ night off base.  Doesn’t think about it when Rogers is gone for the night.  Doesn’t think about it when it turns into Rogers having a standing date with Carter every time they’re back to debrief.  Snarls at Dugan and Jones to knock it the hell off when they badger Rogers for details every time he comes back from it.

He’s an asshole, and Carter’s beautiful, and Rogers is sweet on her, and that’s all he needs to know about it.  Rogers has a part of him that's private after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write porn, and then this happened instead. I don't actually know how to play poker. I'm still working on the porn. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“C’mon, Rogers, we need a fifth and you’re it,” Barnes says, mussing Steve’s hair as he walks by.

They’re three weeks in the field, and the rest of them are all giddy to not be dead.Steve is tired, blisters on his feet and thighs and sore in places he knew he had but didn’t know could be so sore.His feet hurt and his hands hurt, from all the salt in the food making his joints swell and from washing dishes at night in cold water.It’s past that point in a mission when he looks a mess and nobody cares since his is the only warm and mostly willing body for a hundred miles, so he stops caring too.

Steve’s back cracks when he rolls to his feet and tucks the sketchbook away.It’s too dark to sketch by firelight much longer, and his little Wonder Woman cartoon was drifting too close to looking like Agent Carter anyway.Jones is usually the fifth, since Dernier doesn’t gamble, but Jones is on watch tonight.Steve’s killer in euchre when he has a good partner, but Arnie’s somewhere in North Africa and it’s poker tonight.He’s done some sketches of them playing poker, mostly as an excuse to sit and draw Barnes, and otherwise he’s never been near a game.But Barnes pats the mostly-dry patch of ground next to himself when Steve picks his way over to where Dugan shuffles their battered pack of cards, and that’s reason enough.

It’s easy the first few rounds, when it’s just cigarette antes.Steve and Falsworth have plenty, since they never smoke their rations and no one wants Steve’s asthma cigarettes with the belladonna anyway.SSR sends them into the field with 10-in-1 rations even though there’s only seven of them, because Barnes eats enough for four men even though his face is gaunter than ever.Steve worries about him, Barnes going thin like he’s dying of tuberculosis, but he never coughs blood and he says he’s just tired.But it means there’s always plenty of cigarettes to bet with.

Morita takes the first hand, Falsworth takes the second.Steve blushes and Barnes laughs his real laugh, the one that always sounds just a little surprised, when Steve wins a hand with an ace low straight over Dugan’s pair of threes.Dugan just curses and brings the bottle of brandy out, and the first hot drink of it makes Steve blush even warmer.

Somewhere between the sixth and the tenth round, Barnes’ hand ends up on Steve’s thigh, where it’s warm and heavy and just a little too obvious, from the way Dugan looks at it and then gives Barnes a look he ignores.Barnes just loses or folds most rounds, smile laconic as he smokes Steve’s cigarettes and loses his own.The brandy is pleasant and Barnes’ hand is pleasant and Steve thinks he’ll be a bit hungover in the morning but doesn’t care.

“You ladies wanna do one last round with real stakes?” Barnes asks when he’s down to three cigarettes.

Dugan laughs and takes a pull from the bottle.“Why, so I can win your dirty socks off you?‘M never playing another round of strip poker with you, Barnes.”He passes the bottle to Falsworth, who makes a face before drinking and passing the bottle to Steve.

“Only in your wildest dreams, Dum-Dum,” Barnes says, and Steve wonders if Dugan’s the reason Barnes pulls him away from the others sometimes, or if there’s something else there.“One more round before we turn in, ladies, cigarette ante and big stakes pot.”

Barnes shuffles and Steve cuts the deck.They ante, Dugan deals, and Falsworth bets without grumbling because he’s got actual shillings, leaving Morita, Dugan and Steve to grumble and grab what they’re willing to call with.Morita calls with half a chocolate bar and Dugan throws in the lighter with the “bury me face down,” carving Jones had done on it for him.Steve calls with the half finished little tijuana bible he’s been working on. Barnes whistles when he flips through it and Dugan blushes over his shoulder.It is a pretty good one.

“What’ll it be, Barnes?” Dugan demands as the bottle goes around again.“You still owe me drinks from London and I know you don’t have a red cent to your dirty mick name.”

Barnes looks at his cards for a minute longer, taking a slow drag on his cigarette.Then he smiles sideways at Dugan as he blows the smoke out.“My next night with Rogers.”Falsworth curses and folds right there.

“The fuck do you have, Sarge?” Dugan asks, making like he’s going to grab Barnes’ cards away.“You get a goddamn full house straight away?”

Barnes just smiles at him.“Guess you’ll just have to find out, Dum-Dum,” he says.He doesn’t, because he discards one.Morita and Steve discard two each, Dugan discards three.Morita antes with his own next night with Steve, Dugan calls with the round of drinks Barnes owes him in London, and Barnes sees and raises a sweater and a new pair of socks.Then it’s Steve’s turn to call, raise, or fold.

“So what do I get if I win?” Steve asks.

Barnes takes a long drag of his cigarette, rolling the smoke around in his mouth with that wicked smirk on his face.It’s a good thing they didn’t know each other in Brooklyn, because Steve would have had a lot more to confess.Barnes blows out the smoke without breaking eye contact and that right there is at least a decade of Hail Marys.“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Barnes says finally, dragging it out with that wicked smirk.“Name your price.” 

It would be better if Barnes was drunk as the rest of them, but he doesn’t drink in the field and Steve wishes he didn’t love that Barnes flirts with him sober.Life would be easier.

Because Barnes is making him play a dangerous game: bad enough that Steve has to go along with them bartering him back and forth, because really what difference does it make whose bed he ends up in what night when they’re all fucking him anyway.  

Except it does matter because Barnes wouldn’t be doing it if he weren’t still sore about Carter and now Steve knows he’s worth four shillings, one lighter and half a chocolate bar.If Steve asks for a night by himself, alone in his own tent without anyone wrapped around him, he’ll offend all of them.If he asks for a night with Barnes, that’s where he’s going to end up anyway and it makes it as though Steve consents to being traded back and forth.If he asks for a night with Carter, Barnes’ll be even more sore.There’s no winning and Barnes knows it.

Sergeant Barnes is, Steve realizes for the first time, a bully.

“I want—“ Steve starts, and realizes he doesn’t know what to say.Blushes when he realizes everybody’s looking at him.It’s different and uncomfortable being the center of attention when they’re just waiting on him to say something.

“Yeah?” Barnes says, and it’s sinful, the things his mouth does.Sin has been on Steve’s mind a lot more lately than it used to be.

“When I win, you do the dishes,” Steve says finally.Morita snorts into the bottle and Dugan outright laughs.

“When,” Dugan huffs.“The balls on you, son.”

Barnes just sits back, head tilted so that his smile is lit by the fire but his eyes are in shadow.“Yeah, okay,” Barnes says around his cigarette with a smirk.“Anybody you win a night off of does the wash for a week, Rogers.Right boys?”Dugan and Morita laugh and shrug, and if it’s not unkind, it’s not particularly nice either.They agree to it because they think they’ll never have to do it.

So Steve nods and opens his sketch book.Three weeks without doing the wash would be practically heaven.There’s a girl in there he’s been working on from memory, a composite of some of the pro girls and girls Dugan and Jones brag about.Round cheeks, a little dimple on her chin and cowlicked hair.She’s reading in a bathtub, and Steve has a tube of lipstick hidden at the bottom of his bag he used to pink her knees and breasts with.It’s not vulgar; he started it when the weather started going cold, to remind himself what it even felt like to be warm.He tears it out and lays it on the pile of lighter, chocolate and shillings to call, and a second sketch of a nude girl, this one vulgar, to raise.

Morita frowns at his cards and folds, and Dugan looks like he’s going to fold until he gets up to grab a little pint bottle of honest to god Irish whiskey out of his pack to call, and Steve would have bet his whole sketchbook just for a break from the harsh brandy.Barnes looks at it about the way Steve feels.Dugan raises with his night with Steve, and then it’s Steve’s turn.

So there’s two sketches, the tijuana bible, a pint of whiskey, four shillings, half a chocolate bar, a lighter, and three nights of Steve’s life on the table when Barnes gets up to pull something out of his coat pocket.

He comes back with one of the girls he’d asked Steve to draw, half dressed and falling out of her dress while she’s cooking.It’s not a particularly good one, but Barnes puts her in to call.Then he raises with one of Steve’s favorites, a sketch he’d done of all six of them dozing and playing cards at base, the one where the light’s just right and everyone looks happy.

Steve calls.He’s got three queens, but it’s not enough against what ever Barnes is holding.Dugan lays his two pairs down and curses at Barnes, who has a flush.Must have had it all along.

“Don’t know why I even fuckin’ bother playing cards with you anymore, Sarge,” Dugan says.“You goddamn Brooklyn boys with your damn rifle stack, I’m never letting you touch a deck of cards again.”He scowls at Barnes and tucks the deck of cards in his pocket, but Barnes doesn’t look bothered.

He tucks away Steve’s drawings first, as the rest of them start shuffling to bed.Barnes tries to offer Steve the chocolate, but he shakes his head.Doesn’t want it with how Barnes got it.

Dugan, Morita and Falsworth turn in, and Steve should be going to bed with Dernier since Jones is on watch, but he just stays there next to Barnes.Steve doesn’t know what a rifle stack is, but he thinks he knows what it means.He twists his hands together where they’re cracked and dry.

Barnes stands, stretching his back and putting a broad hand on the back of Steve’s neck when he stands too.It’s quiet, and comfortable, and Steve should just let it drop.“You cheated,” Steve says.

Barnes smiles sideways at him.“You’re goddamn right I did,” he says, and pulls Steve into a kiss that tastes like an ash tray.It would be better if he was drunk.

“You’re a bully, James Barnes,” Steve says as he pulls away, and Barnes goes dead still.The night is suddenly much, much quieter past the pounding in Steve’s ears, and when Barnes’ mouth twists Steve wonders if he’s going to get hit.  

But Barnes isn’t that kind of bully.He turns away, flicking his cigarette.“Yeah?” Barnes says.“And so what if I am, Rogers.”Steve can only see his face in profile, dark shape against the dark background of the trees.  

“You don’t have to be.You’re better than that.”

Barnes is quiet.So quiet Steve doesn’t know what to expect, and thinks about leaving Barnes there.It’s late, it’s cold, he’s lost his second favorite sketch and Barnes really might be a bully.

“You’re really something else, Rogers,” Barnes says after a while.His voice is tired and soft, the cigarette just hanging from his hand.It’s the only light part of him, where the dim glow of it catches on his callused fingers and the rest of him is turned away from the banked fire.

Steve steps around him, and stands on his tip toes to kiss Barnes.It’s chaste, and Barnes still tastes like an ash tray.Then it’s over, and Steve goes to lie down next to Dernier, who’s already asleep.Barnes is sitting by the banked fire, head in hands, when Steve makes himself close his eyes.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse the high school French, and thank you stoats for the inspirational shower research

They roll in from the field and SSR’s set up in an actual motherfucking base for once, not just a mudhole with tents stuck in it, and Bucky could just about cry when they’re let out of debrief.  There’s an actual goddamn barracks, with walls, electric lights, and fucking showers.  Showers with hot water.  The whole building’s emptied out just for the seven of them, and Bucky can’t get his pants off fast enough.  Two weeks in the field, four straight hours of Phillips and Carter combing through every goddamn scrap they dragged back sitting there filthy and covered in fuck knows what, and Bucky’s not the only one stripping before the door’s even closed.

Rogers just strips down with the rest of them, and if Bucky doesn't quite think of Rogers as one of the squad yet, Rogers apparently does.  Rogers drops his pack on a cot same as anybody and starts unbuttoning his shirt like they haven’t all seen every inch of him.  He doesn’t bother blushing as Bucky and the rest exchange looks over his head, and that’s—well.  

Not like nobody’s never gotten a semi in the showers before.

Dugan gives Bucky one look and Rogers’ skinny back another, and Bucky just barely dances away from the towel Dugan snaps at his ass.  “Goddamn it, Dum-Dum,” Bucky yelps, because Rogers picks that moment to look back with a smile, and that asshole Morita taps Rogers on the ass with a smirk while Bucky’s watching.

Bucky beats it to the showers double time after that because fuck all if he’s going to let those assholes lock him out of the shower like last time, especially with Rogers already half done soaping up.  The water’s hot as sin and that’s the only reason Bucky’s red to the tips of his toes, scrubbing down faster than he ever has.  

Rogers is—surprisingly well muscled.  Skinny little ass and knock knees and hands too big for his wrists, sure, but out of his two-sizes-too-big uniform he doesn’t look so tiny and lost.  Just—tiny.  A couple weeks hauling pack looks good on him, whip cord muscle down his back even though Bucky could probably put his hands around Rogers’ waist.  Doesn’t pay the rest of them any goddamn mind, ducking under the showerhead like nobody’s staring at his ass.

Dugan catches him looking, so Bucky throws the soap at him.

Bucky’s not the only one looking, though.  Dugan caught him looking because Dugan’s looking too, and Falsworth’s not even being that subtle.  Bucky catches Jones and Dernier exchanging a look, so Bucky flicks his eyes at Morita, who’s closest to the door.  Morita rolls his eyes because he’s already locked it.

Rogers knows something’s up before Bucky even shifts his weight away from his own showerhead, because suddenly it’s a lot quieter and all attention’s on Rogers’ skinny little shoulders.  But Rogers is a contrary little cuss, so he looks Bucky straight in the eye before giving him and his stiffening cock a once over like Rogers is calling the shots in this show.

Bucky gives the boys one last glance over his shoulder before crowding Rogers against the wall, and everybody’s in on the plan now.  Rogers follows Bucky’s look and tips his chin up as Bucky steps close enough to crowd out Rogers’ view of the rest, Rogers meeting his look like it’s a challenge.  And maybe it is, because Rogers breaks first, glancing down at his kit.  It’s just a flicker and Bucky could ignore it if he wanted to, Rogers doesn’t say anything.  Rogers just squares his shoulders against the wall and sets his jaw with a certain—grimness.  And that’s what makes Bucky glance down at Rogers’ kit too.

Because there’s—fuck.  Rogers’ little tube of Vaseline, and it makes Bucky’s cock jump in a way he doesn’t want to think about too closely.  Rogers planned for this but is standing there braced to take them all dry if that’s the call Bucky makes.  Fuck.

Dugan whistles when Bucky stoops to get the slick, and suddenly there’s a lot more noise as everyone lets out a breath.  Rogers has a stupid grin on his face when Bucky stands and shakes water out of his face, Rogers smiling past him at Morita making kiss faces at Falsworth.

Rogers gives Bucky that once over again all the same, holding his hand out for the slick.  Bucky just licks his lips and turns Rogers by the arm.  “Sarge?” Rogers asks for the first time as Bucky presses him against the tiled wall, sounding as uncertain as he looked cocky.  Bucky leans into bite Rogers’ neck as he slicks his fingers up and drops the tube.

Rogers’ breath catches when Bucky nudges his feet wider and puts a hand on his hip to spread Rogers’ narrow ass.  Bucky’s never done this before for as much as he’s thought about it, sliding a hand up a girl’s skirt is different but the principle’s the same, getting things slicked up and ready for the show.  Bucky slides fingers against Rogers’ tight asshole, waiting for him to relax and enjoying the unfamiliar flex of muscle responding to his fingers.  

Rogers pushes back just a little, biting his lip when Bucky holds his shoulder against the wall with his other hand.  “Sarge, you have to—“ Rogers basically swallows against the wall, then pitches his voice lower so it doesn’t carry over the sound of the water.  “You have to push in,” Rogers says, sounding apologetic.  “I usually do this part before.”

There’s resistance, and then there isn’t.  Bucky’s got a stupid look on his face, knows he does, watching his fingers push in and out of Rogers’ tight ass, but no one else can see it so he doesn’t care.  Rogers is tight and hot and squirming back against his hand the way Bucky wants him on his cock, twisting for it, pushing back against where Bucky’s got him pinned to the wall, and Bucky half wants to see Rogers really struggle, put up a fight with all of them keeping him in place.

“I need—more than that, for—“ a lineup, Rogers doesn’t say, because that’s exactly what this is and Bucky wonders not for the first time if Steve lied to him about not doing this back in Brooklyn.  Rogers looks past Bucky at the rest, and even Bucky can feel the weight of their looks now that they’re closer, muttering to each other.  “If that’s okay,” Steve says, bringing Bucky back from the thought of Steve blowing him in a back alley on the way home from the office, Bucky using his pocket square to wipe come off Steve’s face after.

Rogers takes the slick from Bucky this time, and the way he braces an arm against the wall and spreads his legs wider before reaching back—it’s a show now.  At least two of the guys are jerking it, Dugan and Morita probably, Bucky knows the sound of all of them without looking because it’s not like they didn’t all know exactly what each other sounded like before they were all fucking Rogers on the regular.

Bucky’s got his cock in hand without thinking about it when Rogers looks back over his shoulder, two fingers pushed in knuckle deep.  Rogers flicks his eyes between Bucky and the rest one more time as he pulls his fingers out and finally tilts his ass up in invitation.

Rogers’ ass is pink, he’s got a full body blush under the heat of the water, but he’s not hard at all, with the six of them jerking it just watching him put fingers in himself.  Bucky spins Rogers to face him and lifts the skinny little shit in one motion, because it’s not going to go like that.  Rogers squawks, clearly not expecting it, but puts his arms over Bucky’s shoulders and his legs around Bucky’s waist without being told, letting himself be braced against the cold tile wall.

He weighs barely anything and he’s open and hot as Bucky’s cock slides into him, Dugan or Jones muttering behind them.  Rogers makes a surprised little noise as Bucky squeezes his ass and pushes in steady.  He rolls his hips into Rogers, slow at first, and puts a hand on Rogers’ slowly thickening cock between them.  Because even if Bucky’s hard as fuck at the thought of bending Rogers over and pounding his narrow ass like this is a back room lineup, it’s not and Rogers’ joints loosen up just a bit as Bucky works him from half mast to full salute.  Rogers would never admit to being scared of them, but Steve’s still wary of them and braced for the worst. 

Rogers makes a little noise, barely anything as Bucky tips back so more of Rogers’ weight is resting on his hips, pushing into him so Rogers’ weight is keeping him on Bucky’s cock, and his thighs and hands tighten.  It’s barely anything and Bucky fucking loves it, squeezes the tip of Rogers’ cock and wishes they were alone to kiss though it.

“C’mon, Sarge, ain't a Sunday drive,” Dugan yells.  Rogers huffs a little laugh over Bucky’s shoulder and just for that, Bucky takes his hand away and puts both on Rogers’ skinny little ass, lifting him and letting Rogers’ weight do the work.  Rogers huffs another breath, not laughing now, and tries to hide his face against Bucky’s neck.

So Bucky spins them and puts his back to the wall, puts Rogers’ skinny ass on display as Bucky fucks him under the showerhead, and this is what Rogers was hiding from.  The boys are closer than Bucky thought, nobody paying him much mind as Rogers arches back enough to give Bucky a dirty look.  Doesn’t last long, Rogers close enough to look in the eye as Bucky picks up the pace and he can goddamn feel Rogers tighten around him, cock hard and water hot between them.

He fucks Rogers a little harder than maybe he’d mean to otherwise, because Rogers has that goddamn surly look on his face like he’s daring Bucky to not be just as rough and dirty with him as they all look.  And everybody’s watching besides, not like he’s going to kiss Rogers anywhere after the shit they gave him for Rogers getting hickies all down his neck from everyone-knew-who.  Everybody’s too focused on watching Rogers’ ass to pay Bucky much mind except Dugan, who winks at Bucky even though Dum-Dum’s got his cock in his hand, the dirty mick.  It’s certainly not the first time Dugan’s done this, and fuck them all if Bucky’s going to come out of this looking limp wristed.  He juggles Rogers just enough to flip off Dugan, and Rogers yelps as Bucky digs fingers back into his skinny thighs.

It hurts a little, Rogers’ bony ass bouncing against Bucky’s thighs, but between Rogers’ long fingers digging into his shoulders and the sound of wet skin slapping against Rogers’ ass, Bucky can’t bring himself to care much, not about the guys watching him and not about anything besides how fucking slick Rogers is around him, open and breath hitching.

Then Rogers is fucking coming, short hot little bursts against Bucky’s stomach and chest that the shower washes away almost as soon as it happens and goddamn if that’s the last thing Bucky expected, breakable little Steve getting off on Bucky’s cock and nothing else in front of God and everybody.  Rogers’ ass flexes in Bucky’s hands, shuddery and perfect as he tries to hang on.

Bucky’s a little cruel because he fucks Rogers through it, crushing Rogers to him a little too much, just to feel Rogers’ over sensitive cock and his come against his belly, just to make Rogers gasp and arch through it as Bucky finishes.  Because Christ he’s perfect, tighter than ever and taking all this without Bucky having to say a word, and liking it besides.  Bucky doesn’t even fucking care that Dugan and Morita whistle and yell when he finishes, too fucked out to care about anything besides letting Rogers down gentle and making sure he doesn’t stumble on shaky knees.

Dernier steps up first, with a little sideways smile at Bucky, Rogers still breathing heavily against the tiled wall.  Bucky would worry about him, if Rogers weren’t looking so pig stubborn, like he’s going to let them all fuck him to prove they’re more bashful about it than he is, the contrary little son of a bitch.  Dernier’s not so much taller than Rogers, stout and scarred where Rogers is gangly and pristine, except for the way he blushes.  Dernier’s got about fifty pounds on him, all but covering Rogers’ skinny little ass as Dernier presses him to the wall, close enough in height to fuck Rogers standing.

“C’mon, Jack, no one wants to see your hairy ass,” Dugan yells as Bucky sits heavily on one of the back benches to towel himself off, not trusting his knees.

“Allez!” Jones laughs.  “Montre la beaute!”

“Ta guele, mes enculés,” Dernier yells over his shoulder, and whatever it was Rogers must understand because he goes pink to the ears as Dernier finally hauls his hips back and pushes into him.  The way Dernier slides in like there’s no resistance, Bucky must have fucked Rogers wide open, and fuck he’s glad he’s already sitting down.  Dernier says something else in Rogers’ ear, too low to carry over the water and probably dirty from the way Rogers blushes deeper and glances back at Bucky.

And then Rogers tosses wet hair out of his face and plants his hands against the tile to lean down, angling so that everybody can see Dernier’s cock in him.  What it says about Bucky that he’s getting hard again watching he doesn’t want to think about too much, but no one else seems to be thinking much of it, too busy thinking about themselves fucking Rogers.

The crack of Dernier’s hand on Rogers’ ass says that at least those two are thinking about what it means that everyone else is watching, Rogers pushing back into it.  Bucky can’t see his face the way he’s angled, just Rogers’ bony hand curling against the tile and the way his knees shake with the slap.  Dernier gives him another sharp crack before Jones steps in and blocks Bucky’s view.

Not such a bad view.  Gabe’s got a nice ass.

And Christ Bucky doesn’t want to think about what it says about him that he’d give just about anything to be fucking Rogers right now, just to have a better view of Rogers sucking Gabe’s cock.  Or—fuck.  To be sucking Rogers off while he’s getting fucked.

But that’s not worth thinking about, so Bucky doesn’t.  He fumbles his cigarettes out of his pants with damp hands to keep himself from thinking about it too much.

Dugan shoulders Dernier out of the way before Dernier is even clearly finished, but nobody seems to mind.  Bucky has a brief flash of Rogers’ pink, bony ass, Bucky and Dernier’s come leaking out of him before Dugan pushes in.  The lighter is suddenly a lot more complicated than it was an hour ago.

But Dugan’s taller than Dernier and it doesn’t work with Rogers standing, so there’s a brief tangle of knees as Dugan hauls Rogers and Jones and himself down to kneel on the tile.  Monty’s not too busy jerking himself off to nudge the water warmer at the sight of Rogers getting goosebumps and Bucky loves them both a little for it.  Bucky knows that if anything happened to him, Dum-Dum would look after Rogers for Bucky’s sake, but Monty would look after Rogers for Rogers’ own sake.

Not worth thinking about that either.

Angle’s better with Rogers on the floor anyway.  Not so much of Dugan’s red ass, more of Rogers glancing at Bucky before he takes Jones’ cock again.  Rogers is good at it in a way Bucky doesn’t appreciate in the field.  When it’s cold, when they’re both fucking tired, when Bucky knows Steve is exhausted from taking everyone else but can’t keep himself from being too selfish to care, Rogers is efficient.  Makes sense, after all, it’s his job, makes sense that he knows how to make a guy come as fast and efficient as Bucky strips and cleans his rifle.

But this is fucking vulgar, with the way Rogers pulls back as much as Dugan’s hands on his ass and Jones’ hands in his hair let him, making sure Monty and Morita can see, making sure _Bucky_ can see.  He gets his damp cigarette lit finally, taking deep drags of it to steady himself.

Because fuck all if Rogers isn’t getting hard again on this, and he’s fucking beautiful, lips red and hands steady on Gabe’s cock and thighs.  Rogers is pink and pale where he’s blushing, where he’s been manhandled, every line of him standing out taught as he takes it from Dugan with his flushed cock bouncing in time.  Goddamn beautiful.

Bucky never thought about it much, because he thought he had a type: red lipstick, dark hair and stacked.  Carter, basically, if he wasn’t twisted up about her for all together other reasons.  The couple of times he’s gotten tangled up with some other soldier since shipping out, it’s just been helping out or returning a favor, practically nothing sexual about it.  Dugan, Jones and the rest of them certainly don’t get him hard the way Rogers does, because it turns out Bucky has two types: basically Carter, and Rogers’ bony, hard little ass getting fucked eight ways from Sunday.

Or maybe Bucky’s got just one type; high-minded and pig-stubborn.

Not worth thinking about what Steve looks like when he’s with Carter, or what it would be like with both of them.  That’s a fucking selfish fantasy, lady as smart as Carter at home and Rogers’ pretty mouth on the side, quickie after work.  

Or, fuck, Rogers has good handwriting even if he can’t do sums for shit, he’d make a good file clerk.  Make a great file clerk, bent over Bucky’s desk when everyone else is gone for lunch.  Nobody to share with then, just the two of them after hours at the office.  Bucky could do that, get Steve a job and then put him up in a pretty little apartment on Sands Street, big windows and space for an easel.  Electric fridge for beer and a good radio to lay in bed and listen to the game on Sundays.  Could take Rogers to Ebbets when the kids are old enough, Steve would make a good uncle.  Carter wouldn’t mind if Rogers stayed the night after supper sometimes and—

Fuck.

Bucky’s fantasizing about screwing the secretary when he’s got a dirtier live show than any bathhouse in New York right in front of him.  Rogers is moaning around Jones’ cock as Gabe comes, and Rogers is hard as hell.  Not a hand on him, Rogers keeping himself steady against the tile floor and Jones’ knee, Dugan’s blunt fingers digging bruises in his skinny thighs.  Morita shoulder checks Jones away, both of them petting Rogers’ wet hair as they trade places.  Rogers smiles up at them both before getting back to work, like he’s used to this, like he’s done a line up before, like he’d be more at home in the back of a dirty bar than a pretty little apartment.

It’s a nice fantasy, though.  James Barnes, selfish son of a bitch.

Rogers opens his eyes to look up at Morita, and Bucky’s cock jumps at the thought of Rogers looking up at him like that is quickly chased by Rogers looking square at him.  Because fuck all if Rogers doesn’t have Dugan’s cock up his ass and Morita’s hands in his hair but zeros right in on where Bucky’s smoking.

That look, Christ, that look Rogers gives him.  Because it’s one thing to get off on fucking a skinny little ass when Rogers is the only thing on offer, it’s another thing entirely for Bucky to get rock hard watching Steve get railed from both ends thinking about how good he looks with his ass in the air.  Rogers watches as Bucky leans back and starts to stroke his cock, and from the way Rogers shudders back against Dugan without breaking eye contact, he’s close just from that.  

Bucky strokes himself, daring Rogers to look away.  And God help him, Rogers doesn’t.  Bucky forgets his cigarette until he’s got ash sprinkled over his bare thigh, Rogers’ eyes big and hands flexing against the tile as he watches the tip of Bucky’s cock disappear into his hand.  It’d be better if it were Rogers’ hand, or his mouth, but this is almost as good, watching Rogers get erratic as he tries to keep his balance and keep up with Dugan and keep eyes on Bucky, almost shivering out of Dugan’s grasp.  Dugan huffs a laugh and slaps Rogers’ ass to keep him in place, not as hard as Dernier, but it’s wet and Rogers jumps and Bucky almost drops his cigarette.

Rogers comes with a broken little moan, pulling away from Morita just enough so he can gasp and squeeze his eyes shut and lean his cheek against Morita’s thigh while Dugan fucks him.  Not a hand on his cock since Bucky fucked him and Rogers is getting off on being fucked in a line up with Bucky watching him.

Rogers isn’t so far gone that he forgets his job, though, and it must get Morita as hard as it gets Bucky that Rogers tips his face up with lips parted before he’s even finished shuddering, because Morita comes across Rogers’ face right then.  Dugan, dirty bastard that he is, drags fingers across Rogers’ face and makes him suck Morita’s come off his fingers as he finishes.

Monty looks almost half apologetic as he sits on the tile next to Dugan, Rogers getting clumsily passed between them, but Monty’s been waiting as long as any of them and Rogers pets his face gracelessly.  Bucky grinds out the long dead stub of his cigarette on the floor because Rogers is straddling Monty’s lap and Bucky’s got a plan.  Rogers is so fucking open and wet he sinks onto Falsworth’s cock like it’s nothing, and even Dugan makes a little strangled noise where he’s rinsing himself off.  Monty’s got his long piano playing hands on Rogers’ waist like Steve isn’t completely fucked out and doing all the work anyway, ass and thighs all red where he’s been grabbed.

Rogers looks up when he hears Bucky behind him, and starts to tip his face up before Bucky’s on his knees behind him.  Monty makes room with a little smile quirked over Rogers’ shoulder, and just barely nods at Bucky’s unspoken question.  Rogers all but jumps when he realizes where this is going, but Monty’s got big hands on his thighs and Bucky spreads hands over Rogers’ shoulders.  Bucky combs a hand through Rogers’ wet hair when Steve looks back at him, biting his lip, and Bucky gives him a little less vulgar questioning look than the one he gave Monty.

There’s a moment where Rogers just looks at him, and then he’s turning back to Monty, skinny little shoulders squared.  It’s not exactly an answer but it’s not a refusal either, and then Rogers is tipping forward in a way that has Monty shuddering under him.  It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing that Bucky’s got his fingers on Monty’s cock, making sure Rogers is open enough for this while Dernier and Morita curse under their breath.  Somebody kicks the Vaseline over and Bucky takes his time slicking himself up again.  Rogers is so wet it coats Bucky’s fingers anyway, but more never hurt anybody.

Rogers’ legs tense as Bucky pushes into him, just the tip, and Bucky holds his skinny hips under where Monty’s got him by the waist, just to keep them steady as Bucky works himself in.  He’s fucking tight, Monty’s cock too hot to distinguish from anything else and Bucky almost slips out when Rogers shivers back against him.  Rogers’ toes flex against the tile, and Bucky squeezes his shoulder as he eases in.  Falsworth just makes shushing noises and smoothes a hand over Rogers’ chest and arms, almost comically gentle for what they’re fucking doing and Bucky lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Rogers looks back at him with an eyebrow raised.

And goddamn Bucky doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, because he’s fantasizing about playing house and fucking Rogers’ dirty mouth and Rogers is right here asking why he’s not getting the fucking show on the road.  So Bucky gets his head back in the game and picks up a rhythm, Monty cursing enough for the both of them as Rogers pants raggedly.  Somebody’s knees crack with the movement against the tile and Bucky’s will be sore after this but it’ll be worth it, because Rogers is making broken little sounds and Monty’s hands spasm against his ribs.

Rogers doesn’t say anything and Bucky can’t see, but from the way Monty stiffens up and curses to make the devil blush, Rogers is hard again.  Bucky tightens his hand on Steve’s shoulder and makes him work for it, Rogers twisting under his hand and rocking restlessly into Monty as much as he’s able, and that’s it, Monty’s gone.  Bucky feels Rogers spasm with it and puts an arm around Rogers’ skinny chest to keep him in place, fucking him through it because he’s slicker than hell with Monty still in him and Bucky’s going to make Rogers come one more time if it kills him.

Rogers rolls against him, just enough to tip back, and then Monty’s helping tip his weight, holding Rogers’ knees apart so Bucky can see exactly how hard he is with both of them still in him.  He’s pink all the way down his chest, cock laying against his belly and twitching as Bucky fucks him.  Rogers is going to have bruises all up and down his thighs after this, but he just rests his head back against Bucky’s shoulder and takes it, eyes closed now that Bucky’s in him again and shuddering with how close he is, three times in a row.

Bucky comes just before Rogers does, Monty riding it out with biting Rogers’ thigh, muffling curses as Rogers arches back against Bucky.  Rogers’ skinny little frame goes rigid and freezes Bucky with him, taut and perfect as Bucky kneads Rogers’ bony hips and watches his cock pulse.  Barely anything third time in a day and Bucky fucking loves it, that _he_ did that, all three times, whether he was touching Rogers or not.  Bucky wants to bite his perfect throat, give him some real bruises, but doesn’t trust himself with it, doesn’t trust himself with how much he wants it.

Rogers is shaky as a new colt when they finally let him up, still contrary enough to look around with his chin tilted in case anyone else wants a go.  Bucky keeps a hand on him even though Rogers is too prideful to want the help as he washes up, and a good thing too because he winces and slips as he rinses himself off.  Dugan, Jones, Morita and the rest give each other stupid looks like they just planted an important flag, and shoulder check Bucky as they’re all toweling off.

Bucky and Dernier wrestle Rogers into clean skivvies before he falls over, and Bucky’s left to shoulder Rogers back out to the cots.

“That’s why you’re the sarge, Sarge,” Morita says when Bucky lands hard on a cot with Rogers draped across his lap, half asleep and dropping fast.

“Cause I do all you fuckers’ dirty work?” Bucky asks.  He smoothes Rogers’ damp hair out of his face and pretends not to be pleased with the way Rogers tucks against him.

Morita snorts as he sits to pull on his boots.  “Cause you get all the bright ideas and look cute doing it,” Morita says with a wink, and Bucky flips him off to keep from blushing.

“We’ll bring you back supper, Rogers,” Monty says fondly, patting Rogers’ arm as he drifts off.  

Jones looks back at them, everybody else mostly out the door already.  “Barnes, you coming or what?  Allez already.”

“Little stuck, jagoffs,” Bucky says, but not too loud, because Rogers is practically asleep already.  “Gonna take a nap, I’ll get dinner later.”

“Right, a nap.  Okay, Sarge,” Dugan says, because he’s an asshole.  But at least they’re assholes who close the door quietly behind them.


	7. Chapter 7

They’re far enough behind Allied lines for a fire to be safe, but not far enough to warrant a pick up without wounded, so it’s another night in the cold trying not to go stir crazy.  Heading back is always the worst, when there’s no goal to keep them focused, more liquor than prudent and they’re all sick of the smell of each other.  So Bucky keeps his mouth shut when the bottle comes out that night and Dugan’s well worn war stories come out with it.

“Then she says, ‘if you forgot your rubbers, you’d best get creative,’” Dugan says, and Bucky starts to check out.  The bit about the gal's brassiere he could listen to a thousand times no problem, the rest of it not so much.  Bucky passes on the bottle when it comes to him, and thinks about putting a hand on Rogers' thigh while he's taking a drink.

“And?” Falsworth prompts, Morita and Jones looking expectant.Bucky’s heard this one about forty times before.It’s not much of a punchline.Rogers looks bored enough with the sock he’s darning that Bucky would drag him off for a quick fuck, but Bucky’s tired enough that it probably wouldn’t be much more than spooning and he’s not in the mood to take shit from the guys in the morning for whatever they think they over hear.So Bucky settles for watching Rogers frown at his darning instead.

“So I left and got a beer, I can get my wrist sore on my own,” Dugan says, like that’s the funniest shit this side of vaudeville, and it used to be when Bucky could get that drunk.

“You don’t need a rubber or a sore wrist to give a lady what she wants,” Rogers says, glancing up with a look stern enough to fit a preacher.Dugan just laughs him down.

“And the hell would you know from ‘ladies,’ my sweet little pro boy?” Dugan laughs at him.

Rogers looks somewhere between fit to burst and wishing he hadn’t said anything.“USO girls and pro girls get lonely too,” he half-mumbles at his darning.He’s got a deep blush creeping up from under his collar.

“Pro girls, I bet they do,” Dugan laughs, while Morita whistles and he and Falsworth exchange looks.“You remember those USO girls in London?” Morita mutters sideways.

“Now wait a damn minute,” Jones says.“You’re saying you gave up being the fox in the damn henhouse for _this_?”

“I’m only in it for the glamor,” Rogers mutters, sounding so serious about it as he ties off his thread that it takes a second for the rest of them to catch up.

When the laughing’s died down, Dugan toes Rogers in the thigh with his boot.“So out with it then.You can’t just brag that up and then drop it, son.”

Rogers shifts, half shrugging as he clips his yarn and unwinds another bit from the little ball.Keeps his eyes on his work as that blush creeps further up his neck, pinking his ears.“WAACs are nice, politer than the soldiers.”

“Hot damn, WAACs too?” Jones says.He and Morita share a look and pass the bottle between them.

“And?Tell us about all these ways you don’t need a rubber, Rogers my boy,” Dugan says, nudging him again.

“Or all the ways with a rubber,” Falsworth adds, taking a pull from the bottle as it goes around.

“I—“ Rogers starts, then snaps his mouth shut.He blushes toes to nose at that, and even Bucky has to laugh because it’s so obvious.

“You never,” Dugan laughs, and Rogers blushes even deeper.“All that time in the henhouse and you never.”Bucky knows Dugan’s a mean drunk, and Bucky’s just plain mean because he doesn’t stop it even with as uncomfortable as Rogers looks.“What the hell else you get up to in the henhouse?Didn’t they never draw you a diagram of that?”Rogers has been spending all those nights with Carter, after all, so what the hell else do they do.Bucky doesn’t want to think about why he wants to know.“Better and better, let’s hear all about the creative ways the pro girls like it,” Dugan demands.He nudges Rogers again when the kid stays quiet.“C’mon, Rogers, ain’t it your job to comfort and entertain?Entertain, already.”

Rogers shifts, jaw working and keeping his eyes on his work.He’s not working anymore, just hanging onto it to give him an excuse for something else to look at.“I’m not—ladies don’t like getting bragged about like a score,” Rogers says.“Pro girls have feelings too.”

“I bet they do,” Dugan mutters to Morita, and the two of them fall to snickering like schoolboys.

“Go on, Rogers, out with it already,” Falsworth says.

“Not like they’ll ever know, and they’re just pro girls anyway,” Dugan says.

Rogers stands, dropping the half darned sock in Dugan’s lap.“They’re just doing their jobs like anybody else,” Rogers says.“No reason to look down on a person for doing their job.”Then he turns and picks up his pack in one motion, carrying it out to the edge of the firelight.He sits down with it and pulls his bedroll out while the five of them exchange looks.

Rogers’ back is stiff as he settles, and it’s pretty clear he’s making to stay the night out in the open if the alternative is bunking down with one of them.Bucky finally sighs and starts to push himself up, if only because he doesn’t want to deal with Rogers’ cough after sleeping out under dewfall.One of the assholes at the fire mutters _happy wife, happy life_ and Bucky shoots a glare over his shoulder at them.

Rogers is lying on his side facing away from them, but he stiffens as Bucky walks up.“Pro station’s closed, soldier, try Rosie Palmer,” Rogers says, voice pitched to carry back to the fire, and the guys laugh at Bucky’s back.

Which, yeah, fair enough.

Bucky sits down next to him anyway, glaring back at the fire for good measure in case any of them think it’s a good idea to eavesdrop and start snickering again.Like they need an auxiliary with his panties in a twist for the next two weeks.

“Rogers, you’re not sleeping out,” Bucky says finally.

“I said _go away_ , Sarge,” Rogers snaps.

“You actually told me to go fuck myself, which is insubordination, but that’s beside the point,” Bucky says evenly.Rogers sits up at that, but still doesn’t look at him.Bucky watches Rogers twist his hands over each other once and then go still, self conscious of Bucky watching him even though Rogers has his jaw set and his eyes forward, resolutely not looking at Bucky.“Look,” Bucky sighs, “I know you’re sore, but the boys were only ribbing you the same as anybody.”

Rogers finally turns and looks at him, and Bucky watches Rogers look him up and down, weighing the worth of him.Must not find much, because Rogers turns away again, mouth pressed thin.“It’s not the same and you know it,” Steve says.  

 _You’re a bully, James Barnes_.

Which—yeah.They gave Juniper shit about being a virgin before he died still a virgin, but no, it wasn’t the same because they hadn’t all fucked him and made jokes about it.And Bucky hadn’t been vindictive about Juniper chasing after some skirt instead of begging for dick, so it’s not the same when they give Rogers shit about being a virgin in the only way that matters and not being a virgin in every other way.It’s not the same, and Bucky let it happen because he knew that.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, because that’s about all there is to say about it.“Sorry, Rogers.”

“We _are_ sorry, Rogers,” Gabe calls from the fire.The fuckers were eavesdropping, but Morita and Falsworth are nodding, and Dugan manages to look half contrite after Gabe elbows him.

Rogers chews on that, jaw working around a frown as he looks between them and Bucky.Settles on Bucky.“I’m still not sleeping with anyone tonight,” Rogers says.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says as he pushes to his feet, because that’s fair enough and Rogers hasn’t had a night off in weeks.“I’ll put up your tent.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is probably going to be perpetually wip, since I don't have an overall plot for any of this and each chapter is basically its own standalone within the AU.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU to an AU. 1949, both Steve and Bucky live through the war. Am I ever going to write anything else in this vein of the AU? No, probably not, because I don't know what else happens before/after.

The phone rings at nine in the goddamned evening, an indecent hour for anyone to be calling.  

Unless it’s Lorraine.Or Lorraine’s lawyer.

“Barnes residence.”He sounds like he’s four whiskies in, but what’s it matter now.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Speaking.Sergeant Major now.”Because fucked if Lorraine’s weasly little lawyer is going to get the rank wrong on the paperwork.

“Oh.It’s Steve,” Rogers says, and Bucky sits up straight feeling like he’s been punched.“Steve, uh, Steve Rogers.”There’s an uncomfortable silence on the other side of the phone, the sound of a car going by.Steve’s at a payphone somewhere, god knows where, or what happened to him after he ran off—“We served in—I was your auxiliary, in Europe.”

“Rogers.Yeah, of course.How are you, Rogers?”

There’s a shaky laugh at the other end of the line, the one Rogers does when he’s not fine but not about to say anything about it.“Good, good.I just—need to ask a favor.”

“Course, anything, what do you need?”

“I need a place to stay for a couple days.Peg’s in London or I wouldn’t ask—“

“Sure, of course.”Christ, Bucky sees Carter twice a month for SSR briefings and she hasn’t said shit about Rogers.Wouldn’t that be hell of timing, though, if Carter’s thrown Rogers out.“Lorraine and the kids are at her mother’s, no problem.You got a pencil for the address?”

* * *

The phone rings again at quarter to ten, and it’s not Rogers, it’s Charlie the doorman.  “Sir, there’s a Steven Rogers here saying he called ahead,” Charlie says, and the doubt in his voice is clear enough that Rogers must not be in uniform.  That’s something, at least.  Not shacked up with Carter _and_ the SSR.

“Yeah, Charles, send him up, he’s a friend.”

Why is clear enough as soon as there’s a soft tap on the door and Bucky answers it.Rogers stands there all five foot nothing of him, looking run roughshod and dripping wet from the rain, faded bruises up and down his pretty face and hair used to be combed neat for all that he looks like he’s been sleeping in his clothes.Bucky steps aside to let him in.

“You want a cup of coffee?Beer?Can heat up some dinner if you want.”

Rogers steps past him with his chin up, but his shoes squelch when he walks.

“Must be nice, having a doorman to keep the riffraff out,” Rogers says, following Bucky back to the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s okay.Lorraine picked out the place, but now the kids’re bigger she wants to move out to Long Island.”

“That’d be something,” Rogers says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.Something.He points Rogers at the kitchen table, that formica monstrosity Lorraine picked out.Along with everything else.“So what’ll it be?Beer?Or coffee?”

Rogers sits, and looks small, and damp, and cold, twisting his hands over in his lap before he catches Bucky watching and gets that surly look on his face.“Beer.Been a long day.”Like Bucky’s going to call him a fairy for wanting a hot cup of coffee when he obviously walked here in the pissing cold rain.Bucky gets him a beer and puts the pot on anyway.

Rogers looks better with a drink, but not by much.The coat’s two sizes too big and his shirt collar looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week or two.He looked better in uniform, where nobody looked good and it didn’t matter if nothing fit him right.Looked even better out of uniform.

Bucky shakes that thought off and pulls a plate down.“Meatloaf ok?”

“You don’t—“

“Sure as shit do, Rogers.If you’re staying the night you can take a bath too, don’t need you soaking the guest bed with your wet clothes.You want green beans or peas and carrots with it?”

Rogers scowls at his beer while Bucky puts toast in.“Green beans,” he says finally, and Bucky puts the whole thing in the oven to warm up.Lights himself a cigarette and leans back against the counter.

“How’d you know where to look me up?” Bucky asks, passing Rogers the pack and lighter.“Nobody’s heard from you in ages.”Not that anybody besides Bucky asked around, but still.

Rogers keeps right on scowling at the kitchen table like it’s done him wrong even as he gets his cigarette lit.“Dugan told me,” Rogers says finally, passing the cigarettes back.

“Dugan’s—“ a cop now.

“A cop, yeah.He booked me in.”The question of for what hangs unspoken between them until Rogers looks up and meets Bucky’s eye.Defiant, jaw set, same as it ever was.He looks older in the harsh kitchen light, but so does Bucky.Not just from the light.“Got arrested couple weeks ago, landlord let my room.Didn’t tell me til I got out tonight.You want me to go,” he says, and it’s more of a challenge than a question.  

“No.No, of course not, Rogers, you’re welcome here any time,” because fuck all if he doesn’t look even better than Bucky remembered him smoking a cigarette.“Always have been.”

“I don’t do that any more,” Rogers says after a beat, and this time it’s clear enough what he means with the way he flicks eyes down at Bucky’s crotch and back up to his face.Bucky flushes to the tips of his ears, as though he has any shame left, because yeah, he hadn’t been planning to ask but he had been sort of hoping.

James Barnes, selfish son of a bitch.

“You’re welcome no matter what, Rogers,” Bucky says, and turns back to the stove, pretending to check the timer.Half to hide his disappointment, half so Rogers can’t see the lie.

“Sorry,” Rogers says.Softly, like he’s talking to the table.“You’re the only person I know in New York who’s not in jail right now.”

“Besides Dugan.”

“Besides Dugan,” Rogers repeats dutifully, and they both know why he’d call Bucky first.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says instead of telling Rogers he should have called to get bailed out, because they both know why Rogers would never.“You want ketchup with your meatloaf?”

“You got mustard?”

* * *

Bucky gets a change of clothes from the dresser.  Holds a pair of Lorraine’s slacks and a blouse in his hand for half a second before thinking better of it.  They’d fit Rogers better than Bucky’s clothes, but Rogers wouldn’t stand for it and it’s not a question about himself Bucky needs answered, especially not right now.

The bathwater’s done running by the time Bucky picks out a change of clothes, and the door’s hanging open as he pads down the hall.Like the time they got snowed into the chalet with the hot running water and everyone had a go at Rogers in the shower.

Rogers hisses as he steps out of his drawers, and if he doesn’t do that any more, he sure has about as much shame as he used to.The bruises go all the way down his skinny ribs and down his hips and thighs, like he got the shit kicked out of him.Some old, from the arrest, some newer.From his time in jail, even with Dugan there.

Bucky lays the change of clothes on the vanity and can’t help saying it, because what the hell has Carter been letting Rogers get up to if it ends up like this.“Those kind of places are dangerous, Rogers, ought to watch out for yourself.”

Rogers looks over his shoulder, that weighing look that’s always gone straight through Bucky even when Rogers is standing there ninety pounds naked without even rocks in his pockets.

 _You’re a bully, James Barnes_.

“It was at a red meeting, not a queer bar,” Rogers says, turning away to step into the tub.  

And—well.Maybe Bucky should have asked more questions before letting him in, because that won’t look good at all if the Army finds out, but he’s here now.

Bucky just clears his throat.“There’s, uh—there’s epsom salts in the cabinet.I’ll be in the kitchen.”

* * *

Rogers finds him in the dim study drinking whiskey instead of coffee, getting on eleven and halfway through his last pack of smokes.  Rogers is swimming in Bucky’s cardigan and slacks, hitched up with the belt around his skinny waist and cuffs rolled three or four times.  Bucky waves him in and pours another whiskey.

Rogers stands there with the whiskey in one hand and other hand in the pocket of the slacks for a minute, looking at the photos on the wall behind the desk.The one of Bucky shaking Eisenhower’s hand.Of Lorraine and the kids, of Bucky and Lorraine at the altar surrounded by their parents.The one of the Howlies with Rogers carefully cropped out.

Bucky gets his wallet out when Rogers quickly looks away from that and knocks back his whiskey, even though it’s the good kind.Bucky can’t blame him.Rogers glances down at the uncropped photo in Bucky’s wallet when he lays it on the desk between them, then finally looks Bucky in the eye again.Bucky shrugs, because there’s no explaining it, not in terms he wants to say out loud.

“You took off pretty quick at the end, there,” Bucky says, taking Rogers’ glass to pour him another.Rogers moves at the last second so their hands don’t brush.

It’s Rogers’ turn to shrug then, and he doesn’t look Bucky in the eye as he takes the glass of whiskey back.“Yeah.Plenty of work left in Berlin.”At the occupying pro stations, he doesn’t say, but Bucky can guess well enough.

Rogers tries to move past him to the other chair, but Bucky catches him by the waist.Wants to pull him into his lap, but that’s the selfish fantasy talking.Instead he hooks fingers into Steve’s belt and reels him in closer to stand between Bucky’s spread legs.

“Said I don’t do that any more,” Rogers says, mouth pressed thin.Fingers white around the whiskey glass.

“Wasn’t asking you to.”

Bucky puts a hand on Rogers’ belt buckle and looks up at him to say no, but Rogers just gives him that measured, waiting look.The one that cut through all his bullshit and always saw what a selfish son of a bitch he is.The belt catches as Bucky pulls it away, but Rogers still doesn’t say anything, so Bucky goes ahead.

And Christ he smells different, past the Army soap and weeks on the road and damp wool, and Bucky wonders if this is Steve’s real smell how he could never have known it all that time.

He’s still hard as ever, though, like that first time Bucky dragged him off into the woods and got him hard just dropping to his knees.Because there’s easy and then there’s easy, and if Rogers was always a sure thing, Steve never was even as greedy as Bucky was for him.Maybe because of how greedy Bucky was for him.He tries not to think about that too much, shoving Rogers’ cardigan off of him to push his shirt up and mouth at his belly, stroking him up.

There’s the soft clink of Rogers’ glass being put down on the desk and Bucky pulls Rogers’ skinny hips closer, swallowing Rogers and choking a little because it’s been too long.Rogers’ bony hands clench on his shoulders, Bucky backing off to wet his hand and take Rogers slow this time, mouth and hand stroking together so slow Rogers hisses and shudders under his hands.Bucky digs a thumb into the hollow of his hip to keep him in place, the bony jut of Rogers’ hipbone grinding into his palm.

There’s still that spot on the underside of his cock that makes Rogers jump when Bucky flicks his tongue against it, shivering and jittery like he’s going to bolt or fold at the knees.If Bucky had been thinking with his head instead of his dick he’d have propped Rogers up on his desk to blow, maybe press a couple fingers into him or his tongue, fuck him nice and slow while Bucky sucks him off.

Doesn’t last long enough for that anyway, Rogers’ breath hitching and catching like when he’s close but not sure he’s allowed to yet.So Bucky digs fingers into his bony ass, pulling him close and letting Rogers fuck his mouth in short sharp strokes.He finishes with a shuddery breath, one hand coming up to curl in Bucky’s hair as he swallows and gone just as fast.

Rogers drops to his knees without a word and just half a glance up before he’s undoing Bucky’s fly, neat and efficient.He’s beautiful like that, and Bucky wants to ask if it’s any better for him like this, carpet instead of pine needles and dirt, but that’s a stupid question.

What he wouldn’t give to spread Rogers out on the desk, narrow little ass in the air as Bucky pounds into him.But there’s not even vaseline in the house and Rogers’ sweet mouth is a pretty good substitute, Bucky’s hands in his hair keeping him in place.He’s better than Bucky remembers, because this time he can watch the way Rogers flicks eyes up at him, looking straight through him, watching the way he shudders when Rogers cups his balls and tugs, watching Bucky get off on fantasizing about putting him over the desk.

He comes thinking about it, bending Rogers over the kitchen table first thing in the morning while the coffee’s going.Listening to him moan, fucking him until he’s completely boneless.Couple of days, Rogers said.Plenty of time to listen to the game and fuck a couple times.

Rogers sits back while Bucky’s still petting his hair and coming down from it.Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tosses the whiskey back like it’s bathtub gin.

“C’mon, Rogers, it’s late,” Bucky says, and offers Rogers a hand up off the floor.Puts an arm over his shoulders until Rogers balks at the door of the bedroom.

“You want your wife smelling someone else on the sheets?I can sleep on the couch—“

“You can if you want, but you’re too late to be a homewrecker, Rogers.I’m pretty good at chasing skirts on my own.”

Rogers frowns at him with pursed lips to fit a preacher and Bucky almost laughs at him. _You’re better than that_.Of all the things for Steve Rogers to be wrong about.

But Rogers doesn’t say anything else when Bucky takes his hand and leads him to the bed, lets himself be folded into the center of the king mattress and tucked back against Bucky’s chest even though it’s too warm instead of too cold.He fits just the way he used to and Bucky didn’t realize he’d missed this part more than anything else.

* * *

There’s a note on the kitchen table in the morning in Rogers’ neat handwriting.  Rogers is gone, Bucky’s borrowed clothes folded on the laundry hamper and there isn’t even the smell of Rogers left on them.  Not that Bucky checks.

_Dear Sarge, Thanks for supper.Your pal, SR._

He turns it over twice, and there’s still no number, no address, nothing else.Thanks for supper.

Bucky tucks it in his wallet behind the photo and picks up the phone to call Lorraine’s lawyer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is . . . not very nice. 1955, the Howlies' ten year reunion, set after the last bit of AU because apparently bitter post-war Bucky being a terrible ex boyfriend is my emotional drug of choice. Bucky is bitter, racist and writing a Sam gets in the way of Stucky fic in his head, so . . . fair warning and I'm sorry. is this maybe wildly ooc? don't know don't care.

Rogers shows up and the VFW goes quiet except for the sound of the wives watching the kids out the back.

He's in jeans and a black leather jacket that actually fits him, small like it’s from the boy’s section and hair combed like an angel, big horn-rimmed glasses tucked in his breast pocket. Bucky can't help thinking about how good he'd look down on his knees in it, hair mussed and lips raw. He looks a hell of a lot better than the last time Bucky saw him, except for the clear, dark little hickies peeking from under the collar of his white t-shirt right where Bucky used to put them.

It's not until Gabe steps up to shake hands that Bucky notices the unfamiliar black man at Rogers’ elbow. He looks good in slacks and a cardigan, like he's here for a church social. Respectable and articulate looking, not Rogers' type at all. Tall, easy going, body tipped towards Rogers even as he takes Gabe's hand warmly and it's clear as hell that he's fucking Rogers.

“You look a hell of a lot better than the last time the cat dragged you in, Rogers,” Dum Dum says in the awkward silence. “Who's your fellow?”

Rogers laughs at that, just this side of brittle, and Bucky wonders if they've run into each other since that red meeting in forty-nine. Dugan would have said something, even if Rogers hasn't looked Bucky up since.

“This is—“ Rogers starts, and stops, “this is my friend, Sam Wilson, served in Europe. Sam, this is the guys,” he says with a gesture that doesn't quite include Bucky. “Dum Dum, Monty, Gabe, Morita, Dernier and Sergeant Barnes.” Rogers glances at Bucky quick and then away, not quite looking him in the eye, the sound of the kids screeching around the playground in the back filtering through the windows, what they get for doing this thing out on Long Island. “Guys, Sam, Sam, guys.”

Handshakes all around, then, and Bucky somehow misses shaking Rogers' and Wilson's hands as another round of beers gets passed around. Rogers glances at Bucky again, like that first night in the truck, all sidelong looks trying to figure out where he stood.

“So where’d you serve, Wilson?” Monty says once everyone's got beers, back in a loose circle with Bucky propping up the bar and Rogers at right angles to him so Bucky doesn't actually have to look at him.

“Here and there, spent most of it in the air,” Wilson shrugs. He's mostly silhouetted in the light from the back windows so Bucky doesn't really have to look at him either.

"Air Force, really, Rogers?” Dum Dum says, and the guys laugh. “Thought you had better taste than that."

"Well, I hung around you all so long my standards slipped," Rogers says evenly, holding court with one hand in his pocket and a beer in his other liked he doesn't give a damn about having been fucked by every man here. And Christ Bucky would still fuck him in a heartbeat.

"What squadron, Wilson?" Gabe asks, because he's got some actual goddamn manners.

Wilson clears his throat and glances at Rogers, like he’s not sure he should say. Rogers smiles back at him like he hung the moon and Bucky's stomach twists up. “Hundred and First Airborne,” Wilson says eventually.

"Shit, that's not Air Force, that's paratroopers," Morita says. "You crazy assholes pulled us out of Bastogne in forty-four.”

And Bucky watches it happen and does nothing about it, Rogers suddenly getting shuffled off to the side because they all know exactly how he served. The guys crowd Wilson, badgering him, and suddenly it's Bucky and Rogers off to one side together.

Rogers frowns, all the false confidence he came in with gone in the sudden noise of the guys laughing about Bastogne and that fucking airdrop. They'd left Rogers in Antwerp for Bastogne anyway.

“You look better than you did,” Bucky says under the noise, for something to say.

“Heard you remarried,” Rogers says. He doesn't say, from Carter. He doesn't say, for the third time. That's just what Bucky gets for staying with the SSR.

Irene is a wonderful mother. Lorraine and Nancy just didn't work out.

Bucky sizes up Rogers sideways, watching him blush and straighten his shoulders when he catches Bucky's attention on him. _Your pal, SR_.

“You stayed out of trouble?” Bucky says.

“So what if I haven't?” Rogers says. Fingers tight around the beer bottle like they were around the whiskey glass, jaw set and attention on the guys. He's still as pretty and brittle as ever, and he still tries to size up Bucky out of the corner of his eye when he thinks Bucky isn't looking. Never subtle, Rogers.

"Well fuck me, you caught a doctor. You really married up, Rogers," Dugan says, and Bucky laughs with the rest even though he can see the blush creep higher on Roger's cheeks, because he's an asshole and always has been, but thank God no one says Wilson's finally made an honest woman out of Rogers.

Not even true, anyway.

Dum Dum takes Wilson's empty beer bottle, passes it over to Rogers, who just stands there with it in one hand and his own untouched in the other. "Here, Rogers, go grab your mister another beer."

"I can get it myself," Wilson says easily, but it's sharp underneath. Bucky doesn't miss the way Wilson's mouth tightens or the way his fingertips brush Roger's shoulder as Wilson steps out of the center of the group. “You want anything, Steve?" he asks, and there's a look between them Bucky can't read.

Then Rogers takes the chance to sidle over to Monty, and Bucky and Dugan share a look.

It's a strange thing, being back with all the guys like this. Morita's running for mayor, Jones has his own practice, Monty's out in California with weather so nice it has to be a lie. Bucky and Dernier are the only ones still active duty, even if Dugan likes to talk like police work is the same when they have a beer once a year.

Dugan lights Bucky a cigarette and they hang out the open back windows to watch the kids and the wives smoking over koolaid and potato salad, Dum Dum's twins and Bucky's younger two screeching after each other. God willing they'll fall asleep on the drive home.

Irene's a great mother. Miss Brooklyn 1950, prettiest girl here. Prettiest wife a guy could ask for, blonde and little enough he can still put his hands around her waist.

Dugan lights him another cigarette as finish their beers, and they don't talk about it because they never talked about it. Dugan was his best man when he married Irene and Nancy both, they don't have to talk about it.

Bucky drains the last of his, tipping his bottle at Dum Dum's to ask if he wants another. Since Bucky is sure as hell going to need more than a couple to get through this, if only for the excuse to hang out the back window and smoke.

Dugan would have made somebody a good wife if not for the moustache, because he takes Bucky's empty and disappears back to the hall kitchen for another round.

He gets maybe half a minute of peace, listening to the noise of the guys behind him. The kids are having a good time and it's good to see everyone, that's reason enough to stay.

Bucky makes the mistake of half turning as someone comes close, thinking it's Dugan with the beers. But it's just Wilson on his way back to Rogers with another round, looking as surprised as Bucky to be looking each other in the eye.

“Nice day for this,” Wilson says. Pleasant, polite. Respectable and not Rogers' type at all.

“You meet our Rogers over there?” Bucky says, because he can’t not, because he's twisted up over the thought of Rogers getting fucked by this respectable black man at an integrated pro station, because the alternative is letting Wilson direct the conversation.

Wilson smiles broadly, like he’s not ashamed of anything. “Nah, over here in fifty-one. At one of his shows.”

And God that's worse, how could Rogers have made it any worse. “Didn't take you for the type,” Bucky says, can't keep it out of his voice. “Would've thought you were too high class for that kind of thing.”

Wilson’s smile goes flat, and he eyes Bucky up. “I don’t think you know Steve as well as you think you do,” he says slowly. “He had a _gallery_ show in the Village. Kind of a big deal. He's more than what he did during the war, you know.”

"So he told you about his service record." Bucky tells himself he's just making conversation even though it makes him sick to his stomach, even though he can feel himself squaring off.

Wilson measures him up like he's sizing Bucky for a fight, and he's got the same look as Rogers, like he can see right through to the heart of a person. "Yeah, he did,” Wilson says finally, “and I'm proud of him and everything he did. He's got a big heart and I love him for it."

Bucky's jaw works, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that. What the hell can he say to that, when he didn't even have Rogers first, not even close.

“Yeah? He tell you what happened to the major that reassigned him?” Bucky says, because what the hell else did they have. “He tell you about the kills we racked up getting him back more than once?”

Wilson knows exactly what that means, sees right through Bucky's bullshit. " _You're_ warning _me_ off of hurting him?” he says, and he looks a lot bigger when he’s angry, shoulders squaring off. “I’ve heard all about you, Barnes, and even if he still thinks you shit the moon, I know your type, with your third wife and the way you can't stop looking at his ass but you haven't shaken his hand yet. Don't tell me about hurting him."

Wilson walks away at that, because he's the bigger man. Respectable and polite. Not Rogers' type at all.

But Bucky's got one thing that Wilson doesn't and it's that Bucky sees Rogers duck into the men's room while Wilson's still casting around for him. Bucky grinds out his smoke on the window ledge and goes after Rogers, because even if Rogers wasn't his first, Rogers was Bucky's before he was Wilson's, and Bucky never hurt him.

Bucky crosses the VFW in six steps, ignoring Dugan's look as he goes because he always had, and maybe he shouldn't have, but it's too late now, always has been. It was too late in forty-three when they got Rogers, it's too late now.

Rogers is just leaning over the sink in the men's room, half turns when Bucky comes in and doesn't protest when Bucky kisses him. Bucky shoves him up against the sink and tugs Rogers' hips close, Rogers gone pliant and willing as Bucky kisses him.

Rogers pushes him away before it even really happens, his mouth hot and then gone even though Bucky can feel how hard Rogers is where Bucky got him pinned with his thigh.

Rogers flushes an ugly red, cheeks blotched and eyes like he's been crying now that Bucky gets a look at him. "You're married, I'm not--"

"Never used to stop you," Bucky says, because he's bitter and wants to deserve it now that Rogers looks ready to finally fucking slap him.

Rogers' mouth twists around it, over everything they never talked about and maybe his own bitterness, Bucky's not too far gone on his own to not recognize it. "And I told you last time I didn’t want to then either,” Rogers says, brittle on the edge of tears and his mouth just as beautiful as ever. “I'm not gonna fight you, but it won't be sex."

And Christ that stops Bucky dead cold, because is that what it was last time? Is that what it always was?

 _You're a bully, James Barnes_.

"Steve? Steve, you in here?"  Wilson pushes in the door then, and Bucky doesn't bother moving because it's clear enough what's happening.

“I think we'd better go,” Wilson says, and for all that he's dressed for church there's no doubt in the way he holds himself that he could kick Bucky's ass or at least make a good try of it.

But is that the kind of fight Bucky wants to start, over a pro boy he fucked ten years ago.

“Yeah, I think you'd better,” Bucky says, and shoves Rogers away so he doesn't have to watch them go.

“Sergeant,” Rogers says to Bucky's stiff back, and Bucky regrets ever telling Rogers to call him anything else.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really just an excuse for gross rumlow/skinny!steve/bucky porn, sorry. and an excuse to go back before I got off the rails with all that horrible post war stuff. 1943 or so.

Juniper’s barely on his way home in a box when SSR sends his replacement.

He's about Bucky's height but thin, Monty and Dernier's age and knows his shit. Shows up with his gear packed and doesn't fawn when Bucky shakes his hand, and much as Bucky hates to admit it, Phillips is right more often than not and he'll be handier than Juniper. Bucky likes him.

Handshakes all around when they get back to their corner of camp; the guys don't like it but they all know they need the extra set of hands and eyes in the field now that Juniper's bought it. Rumlow's got a good record and he'll be a good fit for the team.

Bucky points them each out, makes sure Rumlow shakes hands with everybody. “Gabe, radio and recon; Dernier, demolitions and acquisitions; Morita, radio and medical; Rogers; Dugan and Monty, acquisitions, recon and ops,” Bucky says.

“What's he do?” Rumlow says with a glance at Rogers while Bucky grabs his pack and slings it towards the tent. Rogers frowns at Bucky's back.

“Comfort and entertainment,” Dugan says, elbowing Dernier and Christ they're assholes, it's a wonder Rogers puts up with any of them at all.

Rumlow gives Rogers a once over as he opens his pack, pulling out his part of a shelter half. Bucky jerks his chin at Monty to get his half out; not so bad having the extra body again if it means Bucky's bunking with Rogers every night with the rest of them paired off.

“Nice perk,” Rumlow says as they get the tent up.

Bucky makes a non-committal noise and leaves them to it. Rogers is a pretty nice perk, but he's got his carefully neutral face on, making sure he's got no opinions about anything over where Dernier, Dugan and Gabe are watching the extra tent go up with a critical eye.

Bucky stands with them and smokes his cigarette while they get dinner going and after. Not his job to tell the guys what to think, even less his job to tell Rogers what to think. Rumlow takes care of his own shit, trades Morita some M&Ms for cigarettes after supper as it gets truly dark. He'll fit in or he won't, doesn't matter if Bucky likes him or not. But Dugan laughs at Rumlow's jokes and gives him a little shit about his upper west side accent, so the rest of the guys will probably go along if Dugan decides he likes Rumlow too.

Dugan gives Rumlow's shoulder a friendly shove when they're all smoking after supper, Rogers cupping his cigarette in his hand the way Bucky showed him. “Well, new guy gets first go,” Dugan says. “Play nice.”

Rogers smiles his crooked smile, but it falls flat as soon as Rumlow opens his mouth. “So you've all—y'know?” Rumlow says. “With a pro boy?”

Rogers goes closed off, folding arms across his chest. Bucky doesn't like it, doesn't like Rumlow, and maybe things won't work out after all. “You don’t want to, I’ll take you off the rotation, but you don’t need to bitch about it,” Bucky says.

“They weren’t gonna put a woman behind German lines, and it’s not like it matters in the dark anyway,” Morita says. Dugan and Dernier laugh at that because they're assholes, and maybe if there were more light Bucky would be able to catch Rogers blushing.

Rumlow laughs along with the rest of them, and he puts an easy hand on Rogers' shoulder when he stands. He fits in fine. Rogers gives Bucky one glance like any other night, and then he's leading Rumlow off to the tent for the illusion of privacy.

* * *

Bucky pushes the tent flap aside a couple hours later, after all the guys have had their turns. Easy living in camp, no need to set their own watch when Phillips' boys have them covered. Bucky shoulders his jacket off kneeling on the tangle of sex-stinking bed roll, Rogers laid out for him.

The air's crisp enough to make Rogers burn like a brand when Bucky finally puts hands around his thighs and pulls his ass close, half dressed again so he doesn't catch a chill. He's skinny enough to break, and Bucky just leans in and breathes the smell of him, in that place on his neck that always smells the same no matter how many of the guys he's had. Bucky smoothes hands down his sides, kissing down Rogers' neck and collarbone. Rogers is swimming in drawers and the sweater Bucky's mother sent a few months back, fragile as bird bones.

“Sarge?” Rogers says, hands curled fitfully on Bucky’s shoulders.

“Told you not to call me that in bed,” Bucky says, and laughs into Rogers’ neck when his breath catches and his pulse speeds up, just a little, under Bucky’s hands.

“Would you—?” Rogers starts, and stops, nudging Bucky’s hand down to his soft cock, too sweet to actually ask for it even as he starts to stiffen against Bucky’s thigh. And god he’s pretty like this, all warm skin and swollen lips in the dark, sleepy and pliant. He’d be prettier rolled onto Bucky’s chest and fucked nice and slow, but this is good too, Rogers shivering as Bucky pushes a cold hand under his sweater and strokes him hard with the other, kissing his way down Rogers’ narrow chest. The shirt smells like Rogers and the rest of the squad even though it’s Bucky’s, starting to go ragged but still warm because it’s not like he needs it anymore, especially not with the way Rogers shivers every morning under his wool coat.

Bucky looks up to watch Rogers watching him as he pulls Rogers’ knock knees up over his shoulders, kissing his thighs just to feel the goosebumps. Rogers has a hand pressed to his mouth, chewing his lips against his fingers even though they’re already bitten raw. He’s hard by the time Bucky lifts his narrow ass up to pull his drawers off, and he smells like sweat and come and sex as Bucky sucks dark little bruises inside his knees.

“This what you wanted?” Bucky asks as he kisses his way down, just to see Rogers nod in the dark, cocooned in the tent like there’s nothing but them even though he tries to swallow back little breathy noises as Bucky bites his thigh.

Bucky's fingers slide in him almost too easy, and Rogers is a beautiful fucking mess after everyone else has had their turn, so wet and slick he takes two fingers like it’s nothing. The tip of Rogers' cock is hot in the cold air as Bucky mouths at it and strokes him slowly, taking his time. This is the closest they'll get to safe, so why not enjoy it, why not give Rogers what he wants and make this good.

Bucky unbuttons his own pants with one hand and strokes his own hard cock in time as he swallows around Rogers' pretty cock, Steve's hands coming off his shoulders to twist in Bucky's hair. He's skinny enough Bucky can pin him down with one hand but he doesn't, nose pressed to the hollow of Rogers' thigh, drowning in the smell of him.

Rogers breathes short and sharp, hand pressed to his mouth to keep from making too much noise. Bucky flicks his tongue against the tip of Steve's cock, fucking him good and slow with his fingers and making him twist for more as Bucky drags teeth up the length of his cock.

Rogers comes like that, quicker than Bucky would have liked, two of Bucky's fingers in his slick ass and his goosebumped knees knocking against Bucky's ears. One day the war'll be over and they'll have all the time in the world for this once they're back in Brooklyn.

* * *

Rogers is all business in the morning, letting Bucky spoon him for about half a second before he rolls out for reveille. Bucky lets him go, because Rogers has shit to get done, and Bucky just has coffee to drink and paperwork to sign.

Rogers presses Bucky's coffee and paperwork both into his hand as soon as Bucky's on his feet, blinking in the cold filtered September light. He doesn't need as much sleep as he used to, but mornings still aren't his forte, even with Rogers' cute ass bent over the fire to watch their eggs.

Bucky settles himself on the ground next to Rumlow and Dugan, watching the assholes who can do mornings move around them. “Seems like you missed your calling, Sarge,” Rumlow says over his coffee.

Bucky gives him a side eye, not interested in where ever this is going. Dugan raises an eyebrow to the other side of Rumlow, makign a face over his own coffee. “Shut your mouth, Rumlow,” Bucky says.

“Sorry, sarge,” Rumlow says with a shrug and an easy smile. “Didn’t think it was supposed to be a secret, it was hard to miss Rogers making all those pretty little noises last night. Won’t breath a word.”

Bucky’s just opening his mouth to chew him out for all the words he’s already said when Morita calls from the radio. “SSR’s got some movement ten klicks south of us, sarge. Want to know when we're ready to roll out.”

Bucky gives Rumlow a once over and decides to let it go. More important shit to deal with, and they need the extra pair of hands in the field. He pushes himself up to go talk to the radio, brushing by Rogers who didn't miss a thing at all.

* * *

Rumlow pulls them out of a tight situation a week into the field, catches a nest of squids coming up their six before anyone else knows what's happening. He's a good set of extra eyes, spotting for Bucky more often than not once it's clear he gets a better read on windspeed than anyone else.

They push north from Salerno in front of the Allied line, and thank God Phillips pulled some strings to get someone who knows some Italian. Gabe can push through when they're with friendlies but he sticks out like a sore thumb and Dernier's Italian is so Swiss-accented they get laughed out of the first farm they try to buy bread from. Rumlow's the only reason they get anything to eat besides the 10-in-1s and he blends in like a local.

Dugan, Morita, Rumlow and Monty switch off shelter halves six nights in seven, thick as thieves the four of them when it comes out that Rumlow knows dirty jokes the rest of them haven't heard yet. It's good, having new blood in the squad after living in each others' pockets for so long, and so what if it means that Rogers sleeps in Bucky's tent every night now that they're an even eight again. Dugan just gives Bucky a sidelong look when no one else is looking, and it doesn't matter what he thinks.

Two months in the field and Rumlow's killed more Nazis than anyone else on the squad. He's a good fit, and the guys like him. Much as Bucky hates to admit it, Phillips made a good call.

So he shouldn't be so suspicious when Rogers is the last one up three mornings running, creaky like when he's starting to get sick. Bucky watches Rogers pick his way around the other guys to Bucky's side, coat pulled tight against the damp cold. Who knew southern Italy would be so cold. Rogers settles next to him gingerly, leaning just a little too close. Dugan gives Bucky a long look and goes back to poking the coffee pot.

“You okay? Getting sick?” Bucky asks, and he’d almost think it was saddle sores from the way Rogers perches so delicately, but he’s huddled in on himself and got his coat collar pulled up like he’s catching a fever.

“Just tired. ’S nothing,” Rogers says. And yeah, it’s been a hard couple of weeks, but Rogers has done long hauls before and this is nothing compared to some of the shit they’ve dragged him through.

Bucky frowns at him and lets him have his coffee. It’s been a long couple of weeks, and maybe Rogers is finally starting to get sick of them after all. He’s got chapped lips and he looks sore as hell; why wouldn’t he be sick of getting mauled every night.

Rumlow moves past them with a smile and ruffles a hand through Rogers' hair, familiar even though Bucky's never seen them say a word to each other. Rogers leans away from Rumlow’s hands so hard his shoulder bumps Bucky’s, but Rogers smiles anyway, thin and tight.

And there’s—it’s nothing, really, Bucky’s left plenty of marks on Rogers to know how easy he bruises. But Rogers tugs his collar straight absentmindedly, like he’s gotten used to doing it, and Bucky can’t remember the last time he saw Rogers naked in the light of day. Because there’s definitely bruising across his neck, and it’s not the hickies Bucky leaves. Hand prints or bite marks, he can’t tell, deep purple and big.

“Take off your coat,” Bucky says, and knows he’s right as soon as Rogers flinches.

“It’s cold,” Rogers says. And it is, but Rogers glances at Rumlow’s back like he’d care and that’s enough. If the guys can hear, they're making like they can't, the bare privacy of camp as they pack their shit. Dugan concentrates on the coffeepot in the studious way that means he's definitely listening, and that more than anything makes Bucky press on.

“Take off your fucking coat,” Bucky repeats. Rogers gets that surly look on his face, the one that says he’s going to fight it, but then he glances back at Rumlow again and just fucking deflates, all the fight and air gone out of him and he starts unbuttoning his jacket.

Then there they are, plain as day. Big purpling and red bite marks, some of them starting to go green around the edges, and the shape of a thumb cleanly outlined along Rogers’ windpipe. Bucky takes Rogers’ chin in his hand and makes him turn his head, and sure enough, there are the shape of fingers, wrapped around his throat.

Rogers pulls out of his grip and won’t look him in the eye.

“Who did this to you?” Bucky says, pulling Rogers back to look at him, hand on his chin. “Rogers. Look at me. Who fucking did this to you?”

“It’s nothing,” Rogers says, shrugging back into his coat, and from the stiffness in the way he moves Bucky would bet anything he’s hiding more bruising across his back or ribs. “I’ve had worse.”

“Not on my fucking watch,” Bucky snaps, and he can see Dugan eyeing Rumlow sideways. Bucky leans into Rogers' space, making him look at him. “You tell me who did this to you, or I'll kick every one of their asses til I find out, you hear me Rogers?”

Rogers frowns at the ground, jaw working like he thinks he's going to say something. Dugan takes the coffeepot off the fire and coughs significantly, eyeing up Rumlow when Rogers won't meet Bucky's eye. “It's fine,” Rogers says, pig stubborn.

Bucky stands, walks through the knot of guys to grab Rumlow by the arm. “Rumlow. Get your ass over here.” He drags Rumlow off a pace. It's clear enough what's going on and they don't need to deal with Rogers slowing them down because some asshole can't be polite while they're in the field.

Bucky stops them out of earshot, the guys and Rogers starting to pack up like nothing's out of the ordinary. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, puts on his best sergeant face. “Whatever you're doing to Rogers stops,” Bucky says. Never thought he'd have to tell another man how to fuck, but then he never thought he'd have a breakable auxiliary in the field, so here they are.

“C’mon, sarge,” Rumlow says with that crooked grin, the one that charmed them two bottles of brandy from a run down farm, the one that got them past some Carabinieri who wanted to look a little too closely at their wagon of cabbages. Rumlow's a good man to have on the team and the guys like him. “Cute little pro girl like Rogers can handle it, not like he hasn’t had worse. Right Rogers?” Rumlow calls across camp, clear so everyone can hear it. Rogers blushes where he's packing his gear, red to the tips of his ears.

“Not on my watch and not in my unit,” Bucky snaps, loud enough for everyone to hear it if they're going to play that game. The guys are watching without looking like they're watching, trying to see how this is going to go down. Rogers keeps his back to them and eyes on his work, doesn't even acknowledge that anything's happening. “I see another mark on him and you’re off the squad, you hear me?”

“Whoa, yeah, I get it, sarge, I get it,” Rumlow says. “No property damage, you could have just said so.”

“Not a mark,” Bucky says.

“Not a mark,” Rumlow says, and shakes on it. He's good as his word, and there's not a mark on Rogers besides what Bucky puts on him after the bruises fade. Rumlow's a good fit for the team, and he always keeps his word.

* * *

Two months later they're packed in four to a compartment on a civilian train Salerno to Rome; Dernier, Morita, Jones and Monty in one and Bucky, Rumlow, Rogers and Dugan in the other, but Dugan fucks off after an hour to go play poker with the boys. So Bucky puts his feet up on the opposite bench and smokes with Rogers beside him, trying to glare into the side of Rumlow's head that he should fuck off to play cards too.

Rogers alternates between his belladonna smokes and his Lucky Strikes, hand cupped around the cherry like Bucky showed him even though the lights are down and the blackout curtains are drawn. It's a good look on him, half turned away like he's looking out the window and if they were alone Bucky would ask what's got him staring a hole through the curtain so intently.

Rumlow uses one cigarette to light his next, crushing it out in the over-flowing ashtray under the window. He reaches over and snaps his fingers under Rogers' nose, making him flinch back. “C'mere,” he says, sitting back with his legs spread wide, and the meaning's clear enough.

“It's late,” Rogers says, glancing sideways at Bucky.

“You got somewhere else to be?” Rumlow says before Bucky can say anything.

“No, but—now?” Rogers says, clearly stalling.

“Your dance card full?” Rumlow sneers around his cigarette. Bucky frowns at the both of them, but there isn't much good reason they wouldn't all be passing around Rogers and a bottle the rest of the train ride if they were all packed into one compartment like usual except that they're split up and Bucky had been planning out how to get Rogers to himself for a few hours.

Rogers grinds his cigarette out without any more protest; it's no different than when they've been waiting on trains and trucks before. His blond hair is bright in the dim emergency lights filtering in from the corridor, his expression carefully neutral as he eases himself off the bench and starts to undo Rumlow's buttons.

“Good thing you picked out the girliest fairy they had,” Rumlow says, carding his fingers through Rogers' hair.

“I volunteered,” Rogers says, more than a little nastily, but he stays where he is and Rumlow pays him no mind.

“He picked us,” Bucky says, flicking ash off his cigarette and shifting in his seat. Doesn't want to think about how hard he's getting himself, doesn't want to think about that maybe Rogers gets him hard because Rogers is hardly girly at all.

Rumlow snorts and ruffles Rogers' hair, shoving his head while Rogers struggles with his buttons. “No wonder he likes his job so much,” Rumlow says.

“You always talk this much when you're getting your dick wet?” Bucky says, flicking ash into the tray. Rogers finally gets Rumlow's cock out and he's hard, not that Bucky's looking, but it's hard not to look when it's just the three of them in the compartment.

“Only when it takes too long,” Rumlow says, and twists his fingers in Rogers' hair.

Rogers doesn't waste any time now that he's on his knees, all business as he licks his lips and swallows Rumlow down. It should be distasteful, watching Rogers on his knees like this, and maybe that's why Rogers dawdled, thinking Bucky wouldn't want to see this. Because this is what he does: seven guys in the field is nothing compared to what he would have gotten at the pro station, and it shows when he's trying to get the job done. Bucky had his fifteen minutes with a girl at a couple different pro stations, he knows how it is.

And God if he was glad for the wraps then, he's a dumb bastard now, because knowing the pro girls had been fucked eight ways from Sunday had always been something to keep his mind off but the thought of Rogers getting fucked every way but sideways makes him harder than fuck.

Bucky watches Rogers get to it, letting Rumlow fuck his mouth with a slick hand around the base of his cock to keep it from going too deep, head bent with hair tangled in Rumlow's hands. Bucky shifts in his seat, harder than he wants to admit just watching Rumlow get sucked off.

Rumlow watches him watching, eyes half lidded in the dark as he fucks Rogers' sweet mouth. He thrusts and holds Rogers in place, making him swallow it deeper, and Bucky can hear Rogers breathing sharply over the background noise of the train. He's good at it, better than Bucky wants to think about, like the night in Austria it was too cold to fuck but Rogers got them all off anyway, on his knees in the snow and mouth hot as a furnace.

Bucky fishes out the squad's last bottle of brandy from his pack and takes a long pull from it, more to have something to do besides watch Rogers swallow someone else's cock than for any effect.

“C'mere,” Rumlow says, snapping his fingers at Rogers.

Rogers glances over his shoulder at Bucky, and Bucky waves his hand. Not like they have a whole fuck of a lot else to do on this train ride. Bucky does and doesn't particularly want to watch Rogers get fucked right this second, and he doesn't really want to think about either reason why. Rumlow reaches for the bottle of brandy and Bucky passes it to him, because might as well pass it around at this point.

Rogers stands and starts to undo his coat buttons, taking his sweet time about it. Bucky watches him, thinks about that little apartment on Sands, about how good a lay Rogers would be first thing in the morning in a warm bed with no one shooting at them and real coffee on the stove.

Rogers tosses the coat on the bench beside Bucky without looking at either of them; he'd probably be blushing, if there were enough light to see. Blushing's a good look on him, but Bucky doesn't get much of a chance to think about it before Rumlow's grabbing Rogers' wrist, yanking at his shirt buttons and jerking Rogers off balance in the swaying train compartment.

“Hey,” Bucky snaps at Rumlow, grabbing Rogers' wrist back, making him stumble back against Bucky's knees and almost fall into Bucky's lap, and wouldn't that be a crying shame. “I told you to knock it off.”

“Mea culpa, Mother Superior,” Rumlow says, throwing his hands up with that crooked grin. “Just trying to get the show on the road.”

Rogers frowns like a preacher, Bucky doesn't need light to know that, but he strips doublequick after that, pants, shirt and tie folded neatly on the bench next to Bucky. His back's stiff when he fishes the tube of vaseline out of his pack, and then Rumlow yanks him down to straddle his lap, pale skin standing out bright against the dark bench and Rumlow's olive drab even in the emergency light.

Rumlow arranges Rogers so he's facing Bucky, straddling Rumlow's lap backwards precariously as Rogers slicks a couple of fingers and preps himself. His mouth is a tight line and he keeps his eyes on the ceiling over Bucky's head as he reachs a hand around and fucks himself with a couple of fingers, steady and efficient with Rumlow's hands on his skinny hips. Rogers' cock isn't hard, isn't even half interested, and Bucky doesn't pretend he's not looking, because of course he's looking.

If they were alone, Bucky would lean in and kiss him, the way Rogers likes, slow and warm with Bucky's hand around Rogers' skinny thigh to play with the tight coiled tendons and soft skin of his inner thigh. He'd tease Rogers hard and then suck him just close enough to coming that he'd squirm and beg for Bucky to fuck him, and then Bucky would grind into him good and slow, making him work for it and wait for it while Bucky fucked his skinny ass.

Rumlow pulls Rogers onto his cock in one smooth motion, fingers curled around his skinny hips to pull him down. The breath goes out of Rogers like he's been punched, but he doesn't make a sound otherwise, just keeping his eyes on the fixed point above Bucky's head and stretching a hand up to the luggage rack to keep his balance. Bucky leans back and smokes, watching and trying not to.

Rogers' breathing is even but he turns his face into his arm as Rumlow picks up the pace, trying to keep his balance with one hand stretched up and the other hand on Rumlow's knee, jostled by the rhythm of the train and the pace Rumlow drives him at. It shouldn't be as good as it is, Rogers' cock limp and uninterested, but there's a part of Bucky that likes it, that wants Rogers to take it because he has to and wait to beg for it, and it's a part of Bucky he doesn't want to look at too closely.

“What's the matter, sarge? Not enough of a show?” Rumlow grabs Rogers' chin, dragging him around so he's facing Bucky. Rogers' eyes skitter over and past him, trying to find somewhere to land, skating past looking Bucky in the eye while he's being fucked.

“Be a better show if there weren't so much talk from the penut gallery,” Bucky says, smoking his cigarette slow. It's a better show than he wants to admit, Rogers' skinny chest working as he arches his back and rolls his ass to take it, Rumlow's big hands on his thighs spreading him wide so Bucky can practically see Rumlow's cock in him.

“You want him next?” Rumlow says, fucking Rogers in short sharp strokes and not even looking at him. “He'll be good and stretched out how you like it, I know you like sloppy sevenths.”

“I only go last so I don't stretch him out for the rest of you pencil dicks,” Bucky says. Rogers' jaw clenches like he wants to say something, but Rumlow keeps a hand under his jaw so he can't, Rogers clenching his eyes and letting himself be fucked.

“C'mon, sarge, can't hold something a guy says when he's getting his dick wet against him. Thought you'd know that better than anybody. You want a hand with that?” Rumlow says, giving Bucky's obviously hard cock a once over.

Rogers looks at him for the first time at that, eyes snapping open to look Bucky in the face. His expression is unreadable in the dark of the emergency lights, but he does't say no and he doesn't flinch when Bucky starts to undo his fly. Rogers tips toward him after a tight breath, Rumlow laughing dirtily as Rogers leans into him and has to be rearranged so Rumlow can keep fucking him.

It has to be uncomfortable, Rogers stretched between the two benches with Rumlow's dick in his ass, but he's beautiful like this, skinny back taut and ass spread wide while he takes Bucky's cock. His mouth is dry from the cigarettes but he makes up for it with his hands and a quick pull from the bottle of brandy when Rumlow takes a drink and passes it over Rogers' back to Bucky. Rogers takes a drink of it without looking at either of them and his mouth burns when he licks the head of Bucky's cock, lewd as he gets back to work.

“Christ he's tight,” Rumlow curses. “You teach him to take it like this or did he come like that?”

Rogers is too busy for a nasty retort to that, Bucky's hands twisted in his hair to keep him in place against the rocking rhythm of the train and Rumlow fucking him.

“Anyone ever teach you to keep your mouth shut while somebody's trying to fuck?” Bucky says, more of a gasp because Rogers knows exactly how to take him apart.

Rumlow laughs at that and twists a hand in Rogers' pretty blond hair beside Bucky's, his other on Rogers' shoulder to make Rogers swallow Bucky in time as Rumlow fucks him. “Nah, but maybe you could, sarge,” Rumlow says, and Christ what a thing to say when Bucky's about to come and Rumlow's got his cock spreading Rogers' narrow ass wide. Bucky grits his teeth and shoves Rumlow's hands out of Rogers' hair, determined not to let Rumlow make him come first, Rogers caught between them.

Rumlow comes in Rogers' ass with a snarl, hand tightening on Rogers' skinny shoulder to give him one more deep thrust, shoving him onto Bucky's cock so he can feel Rogers choke. Bucky doesn't want to think about that that's what finally does it for him, pushing him over to come across Rogers' face as he pulls back coughing and Rumlow drives into him.

Rogers gets in a couple of breathy gasps against Bucky's thigh before Rumlow's done with him, shoving Rogers away with a wet noise. Bucky stretches back against the seat, punch-drunk from coming as Rogers tips sideways onto the bench beside Rumlow. He looks even more fragile than he did on Rumlow's lap, knees pulled up agains the cold.

“Don't leak on the seat,” Rumlow says, and shoves him off with one hard push.

Bucky grabs at Rogers, but he lands hard on the floor, folding up in on himself. “Knock it off,” Bucky snaps at Rumlow.

“He's fine. Right, Rogers?” Rumlow says, buttoning himself up and taking a pull from the bottle of brandy. “Gonna go see if the boys want a go. You want the brandy, sarge?” Bucky grabs the offered bottle away from him and shuts the compartment door hard behind him. He tosses the brandy on the seat and turns back to Rogers on the floor.

“Sorry,” Rogers says, flinching away from him in the empty compartment. “Sorry, I can—” Rogers' breath catches when Bucky reaches down to haul him up by the arm. Rogers wipes at his eyes with the back of his hands and his wrists, hands sticky with Bucky’s come, and he looks a fucking mess, face blotchy red and eyes wet. “Sorry,” Rogers says again when Bucky settles him on his lap sideways.

“You're okay. What're you apologizing for,” Bucky says, stroking a hand down his side, holding him close.

“Don't know,” Rogers says, and they both pretty well know what he's apologizing for. Bucky smoothes a hand over Rogers' shaky side, petting his naked back. He's cold with sticky sweat, chilled under Bucky's hands.

“Can I put my clothes on?” Rogers says eventually against Bucky's chest, huddled closer than he would let himself if anyone were around. They can hear the guys laugh at something in the other compartment, happy and oblivious over cards and whatever Rumlow's telling them. “I don't--” Rogers swallows that away, because when has he ever said he didn't want to do his job.

“Yeah, you're okay,” Bucky says. “You want some of the brandy?”

Rogers struggles off Bucky's lap and back into his shirt and pants with Bucky's help, taking a couple stiff drinks of the brandy along the way. He looks like he's been mauled by the time Monty and Dugan tap on the door, the two of them stinking drunk and Rogers trying to disappear into the seat cushions while they sway in the door and give him the once over.

The rest of the guys are rowdy in the other compartment, having a good night of leave, and Bucky'll probably hear about it from the conductor before morning. Rogers won't look up from the piece of carpet he's concentrating a hole in, and Bucky just gives Dugan and Monty his sergeant look, daring them to say anything.

Dugan and Monty look at each other, look back at the other compartment, the mood shifting even if they're no steadier on their feet than they were a second ago. Bucky points them at the empty bench across from him and Rogers, and they settle to the compartment without a word as Bucky puts an arm over Rogers' shoulders and pulls him back close again.

 

* * *

It's a wet night in April when Bucky's on watch, Rogers tucked up warm in Bucky's bed wrapped in another of the sweaters from his mother against the damp. It should be starting to get warm soon, but Italy is nothing but mud and more mud and they'll all be coughing like Rogers sooner rather than later if it keeps up. Rogers tries to keep it quiet, to keep from giving them away, but Bucky can tell when he drops into actual sleep instead of his fitful dozing because he coughs from his chest when he's not awake enough to push it down.

Bucky goes rigid in an instant, caught flat footed on guard because he'd been wary for sound outside camp and not the sound of Rogers and the guys at his back. “Put it down,” Rumlow says, gun in the small of Bucky's back. His side piece, from the feel of it.

Bucky could yell for the guys; he could knock the gun out of Rumlow's hand. He'd probably get a bullet in the kidney and he might even live through it. And he might give away their position, which might be exactly what Rumlow was hoping for.

Bucky puts his rifle down slowly. Dernier's not due on watch for another two hours, but sometimes Dugan gets up to take a piss during Bucky's watch. Bucky takes a breath and doesn't move when Rumlow gives him a push towards the edge of camp. Bucky can hear the guys breathing, all quiet and even. No one's going to wake up to get him out of this.

“C'mon, sarge,” Rumlow says, gun steady. “This isn't personal.”

“Sure feels personal.” He shouldn't be surprised by this but he is. Phillips and Carter vetted a couple dozen potentials before picking Rumlow; Rumlow didn't just fool them, he fooled everybody.

“Well, you didn't think Hydra'd let our prize walk away,” Rumlow says, and Bucky's blood runs even colder. Not just a plant; a Hydra plant. “Dr. Zola'd like to check up on you.”

“Tell Zola I'll see him in hell,” Bucky says. Sounds more confident than he feels, because Rumlow's known all this time what Hydra did to him, might know better than Bucky does what Zola did to him on that table.

Might even have been there, have seen him. Bucky can't remember and doesn't want to.

“Tell him yourself,” Rumlow says, and gives Bucky a hard shove. Towards the edge of camp; back to Zola and Hydra and that screaming, ragged blankness. Bucky's vision narrows, the dripping of the trees loud past the ringing in his ears.

“Put it down,” Rogers says.

Rumlow half turns to look over his shoulder and laugh, and Bucky can't blame him. Rogers is standing there in drawers and Bucky's sweater, up to his ankles barefoot in mud. He's got his Luger in his hands, the one Bucky taught him to shoot with, feet spread in good form despite the frozen sucking mud like he might actually shoot something.

“Your fairy's pretty cute,” Rumlow says, turning back to Bucky, right before Rogers shoots him in the thigh.

Rumlow's shot goes wild, catching Bucky in the arm as he goes down, and Bucky kicks him in the teeth. Rogers stands there stock still as the guys boil out of the tents around him, Dugan kicking Rumlow's gun away stumbling in his stocking feet. Morita punches Rumlow in the teeth and puts pressure on his bleeding thigh while Gabe and Monty cover him.

Bucky takes deep breaths to steady himself, vision still narrowed down to the tunnel of blank darkness that had him on Zola's table. Rogers comes to stand next to him in the squelching mud, watching as the guys truss up Rumlow still bleeding. It'd be easier to just end it quick and toss him down a ravine, but Phillips is going to want to know how Hydra got a plant in so seamlessly. Nobody's going to have a good next couple of weeks tromping back to SSR, least of all Rumlow.

“You okay?” Rogers says, Luger dangling in his hand, and Bucky does and doesn't want to ask him how much he heard. All of it, probably, and Bucky can't stand the idea that Rogers might know even more than Dugan does.

Bucky takes a deep breath and lets it out. Puts an arm over Rogers' shoulders and pulls him close against his side. Whatever Rogers over heard, he still shot Rumlow, he's still standing here next to Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, thanks, Rogers.” Bucky's shakier on his feet than he wants to admit, but there's something for having Rogers' comfort tucked against his side in the cold mud.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another terrible short bit, based off a [prompt on tumblr](www.a-social-construct.tumblr.com). probably set somewhere in the early days right after Steve joins the Howlies. maybe one day I'll organize these chronologically, but today is not that day.

It doesn't actually hurt.

Or at least, no worse than anything else anyone's done to him, and it's not as though it hurts worse just because it's Sergeant Barnes.

That's what Steve tells himself, anyway, to make himself keep breathing where Barnes slammed him face down on the blanket, hand on the back of his neck. His chest is tight and he can't get a breath between Barnes' weight and the pace Barnes is fucking him, brutal and mean. He can't get leverage with Barnes twisting his right arm behind his back but Barnes shoves him down again anyway, blunt nails digging in Steve's neck and crushing his cheek against the blanket over dirt so that everything smells like frosted dirt and damp wool. Half a second ago he was straddling Barnes, teasing him with just riding the tip of his cock and pinning his arms over his head, and Barnes hasn't made a goddamn sound since and neither has Steve, because who would come for him. Dugan's on watch and Dugan would never—Barnes would never—but what if they—

Steve makes a pathetic sound as Barnes finishes in him and shoves him away, cheek rubbed raw on the blanket. He gets one gasped breath before Barnes is up and gone, the sound of his zipper loud over Steve's ragged breathing because Barnes was still dressed against the cold with Steve riding him bare assed naked, over heating from being fucked four times before Barnes except that now the temperature's dropped and Barnes pushes the tent flaps aside as he leaves so Steve's shaking in the rush of cold air as he gets himself righted. It didn't actually hurt, and it's just cold, there's no reason for him to be shaking as he sits up.

But then there's the sound of heavy boots coming back and Steve pushes himself to the far end of the tent, as if canvas and his own skinny legs are any protection if Barnes wants to go again or haul him out into the cold and Steve would never be a match for him in a fair fight but maybe if Steve got the first swing in—

But it's just Dugan, not Barnes. Dugan sticks his head in the tent flap, ducking to look at Steve and frowning as he lets the cold air rush in so Steve can't stop shaking for the cold.

“The fuck did you do?” Dugan says, but then he's gone again before Steve can get breath to answer.

So that's all.

Steve listens to Dugan's boots crunch away in the frost, but there's no sound of Barnes even though he was supposed to sleep with Steve tonight.

It's cold, cold enough that Steve fumbles the cloth as he wipes down with shaky hands, and if there's maybe blood mixed in with Barnes' come, it didn't actually hurt.

\--

Steve's back hurts the next morning, from the cold and sleeping up braced for Barnes to come back and everybody looking at him when he doesn't sit down next to Barnes to drink the Army's chewy excuse for coffee.

Barnes looks at him sideways but doesn't say anything, and Steve keeps his shoulders square, because it doesn't matter if things aren't quite the way he hoped they were. If wishes were fishes Steve wouldn't be in this job in the first place.

Barnes circles around him as they pack up camp, moving to put an arm over Steve's shoulders like usual until Steve sidesteps away from him to help Falsworth fold damp canvas. Steve can feel Dugan and Barnes exchange a look over his head, but he doesn't trust his hands to not shake in the cold so he keeps his eyes on his work and helps Morita pack up the radio. Barnes leaves off circling when him and Dugan stand off away from the rest, frowning at their boots, and Steve's ears pink when they look at him.

Steve startles when Barnes comes up on his bad side and puts a hand on his shoulder, propelling him away from the rest. Nobody says anything about it, though, and nobody looks at him when Steve glances back, because who would come for him.

Barnes stops just outside of hearing, settling himself on a downed tree where they can see the guys finishing up. Steve hesitates, standing there with his hands in the pockets of what used to be Barnes' coat, watching him fish out his pack of smokes.

Barnes glances up at him, barely, and his voice doesn't leave any room for argument when he looks back down to tap out a cigarette. “Rogers. Sit down.”

Steve sits, but just out of arm's reach. If Barnes is going to take a swing at him, he's not going to do it sitting down, but it wouldn't be the first time Steve's been slapped in front of a guy's buddies.

Barnes frowns down at his chapped hands, trying to press a damp cigarette straight between his fingers. “Last night. Dugan said.” Barnes takes a deep breath. “Dugan said last night I—” Barnes stops, frowns, taps his cigarette on his palm. “I'm off your rotation. It won't happen again.”

“I can do my job,” Steve says, trying to straighten his shoulders like it didn't hurt, trying not to flush at the thought of Dugan and Barnes talking about him, as if they haven't both fucked him in front of the other plenty of times. But if Barnes doesn't want him because Steve got an attitude after one rough fuck, how long will it take the rest of them to decide Steve's not worth the hassle when they can just wait for the pro girls on leave.

And for half a second Steve's sure it's over right then, with the look Barnes gives him, standing up suddenly like Steve pissed on his boots; he's bigger from this angle, standing over Steve, and he's not out of arm's reach any more. It wouldn't be the first time Steve's been punched in front of a guy's buddies, either.

“I'm not fucking you because it's your job,” Barnes snarls, and he stalks away before Steve puts together what that means and why he didn't get a black eye.

Maybe it only hurt because it was Barnes.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, pretty terrible, but in new and different ways. about equal parts sappy cuddle sex and stupid noncommunication angst. I'm pretty committed to just indulging all my needs for terrible bs in this au, so lower your expectations accordingly.

If he were any one else, Steve would think Barnes was drunk. But Steve's seen him down enough eau de vie to kill a man and keep walking, so this is all Barnes, nuzzling Steve's collarbone and mouthing at his neck, pushing the collar of his undershirt down to bite little bruises where the guys won't see. Barnes is half dressed and sappy, his hands and breath warm through Steve's shirt, the gray afternoon light making Barnes and their rented room look softer.

“What do you want to do, sugar?” Barnes says, big hands spread on Steve's waist where he's straddling Barnes' lap and Barnes' nose pressed under his jaw.

“You can fuck me like this,” Steve says, grinding down on Barnes' hard cock pressed up against his ass.

“That what you want? Tell me what you want, I want to fuck you how you want, sweetheart.”

“What got into you?” Steve laughs. Not like he's never been called sweetheart and sugar and baby by some guy in the dark, thinking of someone else, but Barnes holds his cards so close to his chest he's never slipped another name when he's fucking Steve. Barnes is carrying a torch for someone, but Steve'll never know who she is. Maybe Steve is the kind of guy Barnes can tell about his sisters without worrying about their honor, but he's sure not the kind of guy Barnes will tell about his sweetheart.

“The end of the war,” Barnes says in the hollow of Steve's throat, and then it makes sense. Barnes is going home to his girl, and they've got a month or two of goodbyes before they get shipped out separately. Which is—fine. Steve will be fine. It was always going to be this way, so there's no use wishing it would be any different. “C'mon Stevie, tell me how to fuck you, anything you want,” Barnes murmurs and Steve can't stand how good he is.

Steve swallows around the knot in his throat and tries to be grateful Barnes can't see his face. Maybe they'll keep in touch, get a beer once in a while. It's a stupid fantasy, as if Barnes will want anything to do with him once they ship stateside. Barnes' girl is probably the prettiest girl in Brooklyn, as smart and pretty as Agent Carter. Barnes is a good guy, trying to be sweet to Steve before he says his goodbyes and has his nice life. Steve will be fine.

"I like it when you bend me over and fuck me hard," Steve says, trying to remember what Barnes likes best, because there's a pathetic part of him that wants Barnes to say something stupid like that he'll miss Steve. He'll miss the fucking, maybe. "There's the dresser, you could put me over it and fuck me--or--or like that time you fucked me up against the wall in Antwerp—"

"Steve," Barnes laughs, leaning back to look at Steve and take his face in both hands. Barnes runs a thumb over Steve's lips, looking stupid and fond. "I asked what you want, not what you think I want," Barnes says, and it's not fair.

It's like when he roped Steve into playing poker and then made him name his price while they traded him back and forth, like Barnes doesn't already know exactly how much Steve's worth. Steve twists in his lap, flushing bright red under Barnes' hands and eyes, because it's not fair, Barnes trapped him into this and Steve's too transparent to hide what he really wants and Barnes is laughing at him for it.

"I—can we spoon?" Steve says, closing his eyes. At least that way Barnes won't see when he cries. Steve's made it this far without crying in front of most of the guys, he can manage a few weeks longer.

Barnes huffs a laugh, combing fingers through Steve's hair. "Never done that before," Barnes says, and why does everything have to be a trap.

"I can blow you," Steve says, trying to twist out of Barnes' hands. "Just tell me what to say." What's it matter at this point, if what Barnes wants is to see Steve humiliate himself with wanting what he can't have.

"Steve, hey, no, it's not like that," Barnes says, but he still doesn't let Steve get away. He smooths hands over Steve's shoulders like he's gentling a dog. "I just—I don't know what you like, is all, I was just surprised. That's all, I promise."

Steve looks at him sideways, because Barnes even sounds like he means it. "Why?" Steve says finally. Barnes hasn't lied to him yet. Not that Steve knows of, anyway.

“Cause I want to have a good time with my buddy Steve instead of Auxiliary Rogers for a change, if that's ok with you,” Barnes says. His fingertips make circles on the wool over Steve's knee, like he doesn't know he's doing it. “You ok?”

Steve's not, but he nods anyway because that's not what Barnes wants to hear, not if he's trying to be sweet. There's no reason to ruin the last few months before they ship out with whining, anyway, and Steve'll take what he he can get before Barnes goes home and marries his girl. So what if Barnes knows about his stupid crush and doesn't want to humiliate him for it like the guys at the pro station. It's not as though Barnes knowing and not punishing him for it is any more humiliating than the guys who did, even if it feels like it, like waiting for the other shoe to drop like it always did. It always hurt one way or another once the guys at the pro station smelled blood in the water, so why should Barnes be any different.

Barnes just watches him, unconvinced. “We don't have to fuck if you don't want to,” Barnes says eventually, not quite keeping the annoyance out of his voice. Steve flushes pink to the tips of his ears and leans in to kiss, but Barnes turns his face away. “I mean it. You want the day off instead?” Barnes says.

And maybe Steve does. The guys are out, catting around where ever the hell they are with local girls and a bottle of cheap paint thinner, and maybe Steve does want some time away from them all. He misses Carter and he misses Barnes even sitting right here in his lap because Carter and Barnes have lives to go back to and so does Steve. Getting away from Barnes would at least stop drawing out this pain of waiting for the next few months to be over, maybe make Barnes stop trying to be sweet if he thought Steve wanted to get away from him.

So Steve leans in to kiss him, and this time Barnes lets him. His mouth is warm as the rest of him and a little slow, letting Steve lead and it feels just as clumsy as when Steve tries to lead in dancing. Carter was always a better lead and Steve's never had to before but Barnes makes him do it anyway.

Steve feels himself blushing hotter and tries to pull away, but Barnes catches Steve's lip in his teeth and puts a broad hand on the back of his neck to keep him in place. It's not unkind, not like Rumlow or Dugan sometimes or the guys at the pro station, but Barnes doesn't give him any direction, just makes Steve guess at what he wants and it's as bad as Steve's first night with the guys except with kissing and he feels like he should know this but he's always just let Barnes fuck him before.

Barnes cards lazy fingers over Steve's scalp, making him fumble like a virgin and Steve thinks maybe he can feel Barnes laugh at him but he can't tell. Barnes finally shifts under him, and he's not as hard as he was, but he presses up into Steve so Steve can feel Barnes' cock stiffening against his ass. That's some direction at least, and indication that Barnes still wants to fuck him, so Steve grinds down into him the way Barnes likes and arches his back the way Barnes likes. It feels like putting on a show because it is, but Barnes doesn't seem to care one way or the other, one hand in Steve's hair and one hand on his thigh not doing a damned thing.

Steve makes a noise and Barnes really does laugh at him then, one of his short little real laughs when the guys aren't around to make a show for. “You kiss like you're trying to win,” Barnes says, and doesn't give Steve enough time to blush deeper before he's pushing Steve's suspenders down and tugging his shirt up.

But Barnes just lies back on his elbows once Steve's shirt was off, watching him fumble for Barnes' belt and shirt buttons. Steve has to lean over him close enough to kiss in order to get his top buttons undone, and Barnes steals a quick peck on the cheek, grinning like he's gotten away with something.

And god, it's not fair, Steve's hands shaking on Barnes' belt like his first night at the pro station, Barnes leaning back to watch him like they have all the time in the world. Steve hopes Barnes is actually feeling as patient as he seems, because Steve can't get it up yet for nerves, jittery not knowing whether Barnes wants him to get off on this like usual. He's thinking too hard, overanalyzing even as he gets Barnes' fly open on muscle memory.

Steve kisses down Barnes' chest, stroking his cock, because at least a good blow is something Steve knows how to do. And no matter how pretty Barnes' girl is, any girl he'd marry would never do that, so maybe Barnes will miss Steve's mouth even if he doesn't miss Steve.

“Hey,” Barnes says, catching Steve when he figures out where this is going. “Get up here. What do _you_ want to do?”

“I—“ Steve stutters with Barnes' hand on his face. What's he even supposed to say to that? Steve frowns at the sheets, mouth opening and closing as he looks for the right answer.

Barnes kisses him, cupping Steve's jaw like Steve's a girl in the movies. He's steady and warm and all Steve wants to do is the right thing but he doesn't know what that is anymore.

Barnes eases Steve down to the mattress, propped on an elbow to kiss and smooth one broad palm down Steve's belly and thigh. He puts a hand on Steve's chest when Steve tries to arch up into him to kiss, and that's at least familiar in a way Barnes' gentleness isn't, still making Steve lead clumsily like he never learned to kiss.

“You still want to spoon?” Barnes asks, tracing fingers over Steve's bare chest, light enough to give him goosebumps. He looks younger in the soft light like this, face tipped down to brush lips along Steve's clavicle.

Steve nods, not trusting himself to say anything, and Barnes finally pushes the rest of Steve's clothes off him. There's a moment where he feels too exposed, too vulnerable, lying there naked with his soft cock betraying him, Barnes just studying him with callused fingertips and hooded eyes, still half dressed with his shirt open.

But then Barnes takes pity, leaning in to kiss him again, and he lets Steve help push his clothes off him, the smell of him warm and overwhelming. He smells less like gun oil and more like a normal person with his clothes off, his body radiating heat even as he pulls the quilt up to tuck them in, like he cares whether or not Steve's chilled.

Steve lets himself be nudged over to lie on his side, Barnes putting his arm under Steve's pillow to hold Steve's hand like he does sometimes in the evenings when Steve's joints hurt. Nothing sappy because why would he, just warm and solid and steady as Barnes himself.

Barnes tucks in behind Steve with something that sounds like a sigh. Steve tries to let some of the tension ease out of his back as Barnes settles, lips brushing Steve's shoulder and fingers brushing down Steve's thigh. “D'you know, I almost wish it wasn't getting warm,” Barnes says with his lips brushing Steve's ear, in that low voice that goes straight to Steve's dick no matter what. Barnes could read the phonebook in that voice and it would get Steve hard. “Gonna miss seeing you in my sweaters.”

Steve tips his head back to be kissed, because Barnes will never say he'll miss Steve, but that's pretty close. Barnes wraps his other arm around Steve's narrow chest, letting Steve put his chilled feet between Barnes' warm calves, hard cock pressed up against Steve's ass and throbbing slow and lazy. Barnes grinds into him and finally kisses him properly, fucking Steve's mouth with his tongue like he just remembered how.

“God you smell good,” Barnes says when he pulls back, tipping his head against Steve's shoulder. He tips Steve a little on his belly to trace fingers over his slick ass, prepped from earlier when Barnes said he wasn't going out catting around with the guys. “I forgot your tie in my pocket the other day and I think Phillips was about ready to cut my dick off because I couldn't focus in the briefing,” Barnes says with a huffed laugh against Steve's shoulder, fucking him with just the tips of two fingers.

Steve turns his face down into the pillow to laugh, because god he never wanted to think about Phillips with Barnes fingering him open, but he can't not. Steve presses back into Barnes and rolls his shoulder into it when Barnes nips at his neck, because Barnes thinks about him in meetings and that's like saying he'll miss Steve.

Or miss fucking him at least. Which is fine. Steve will be fine. He feels like he's going to vibrate apart and burst at the seams, but he'll be fine.

Barnes replaces his fingers with the tip of his cock, hot and blunt, just barely rocking into Steve even though he's already slick and open. “This is my favorite spot,” Barnes murmurs, drawing a circle in the hollow of Steve's hip with the tip of one finger. He drags fingers down Steve's thigh and back up to palm Steve's stiffening cock as Steve rocks back into him, trying to fuck himself deeper than Barnes will let him.

Barnes laughs and pins Steve's ankles between his, keeping him from spreading his legs for it. Steve's hard now despite himself, trying to push into Barnes' callused hand around him, trying to get any kind of leverage to make Barnes fuck him. But Barnes is a goddamn tease, playing with the slick head of Steve's cock, circling the hard pad of his thumb over the ridge of Steve's cock and stroking him slow like he's got no intention of hurrying anywhere fast.

Steve presses his hand to his mouth without thinking about it, because that's how they fuck, quiet so they don't break cover, quiet so the other guys can sleep through it, but Barnes reaches up and tugs Steve's hand down from where he's pressed knuckles against his teeth to keep himself quiet.

“C'mon, Steve, I want to hear you,” Barnes murmurs into his shoulder. “Nobody around to care, I want to hear how bad you want it.” Steve flushes and tries to hide his face, but Barnes' arm around his chest keeps him in place, the fingers of Barnes' other hand threading through Steve's.

Steve makes a disgruntled noise when Barnes won't let him grind back as deep as he wants, surprising a laugh out of Barnes against Steve's shoulder. Barnes fucks him in little teasing strokes, just barely the tip of his cock, making Steve twist against him trying to get leverage to fuck himself.

“You want it?” Barnes says, bringing his hand down keep Steve's hips in places and tease. “Let me hear how bad you want it and I'll fuck you good and deep,” Barnes says.

He strokes Steve's cock again to punctuate, rolling his palm over the head, making Steve's breath hitch and come fast. Barnes rewards his breathy sigh with a deep roll of his hips and Steve makes an embarrassingly needy noise, Barnes finally picking up the pace as Steve bites his lip to keep back something too close to a whine.

Barnes pulls Steve to him so that Steve's ass is flush to his thighs and just holds him there, stroking Steve's cock. Barnes is too big like this, when all Steve can think about is the weight of him pressed against Steve's back and being spread open on his thick cock. His bony hips dig into Steve's ass, every inch of skin throbbing as Barnes jerks him off.

Steve moans without meaning to as Barnes pulls his foreskin over the ridge of his cock again and again, just enough to make him go tense with need, and then Barnes starts fucking him again, slow and relentless as the tide. Barnes mouths along Steve's shoulder, lips and breath too warm where they're tucked into the covers, like it's just them.

“God, you're perfect,” Barnes breathes into his shoulder, just quiet enough that Steve could have imagined it.

Steve comes into Barnes' hand with a broken moan, Barnes' hands tightening on him even though Steve feels like he's shuddering apart, Barnes fucking him through it. Barnes bites his shoulder burning bright and Steve arches back against him, Barnes using the angle to fuck him deeper and it just won't end. Steve reaches back to twist his fingers in Barnes' hair and keep his mouth on Steve's shoulder, searing hot and perfect, Barnes' blunt fingers tightening in the hollow of Steve's hip right where muscle meets bone.

Steve goes boneless as he was rigid, liquid as Barnes fucks him relentlessly. It's too much, Steve over sensitive and riding it out, but he's too far gone to do anything about it, floating as Barnes presses himself to Steve's back and fucks him, deep and rolling. Barnes brings his come-covered fingers to Steve's lips and Steve sucks obediently, too pleasantly empty to think about anything but the feeling of Barnes' calluses in his mouth.

Barnes pulls Steve to him as he comes, forehead tipped against Steve's shoulder and arm tight across Steve's chest. He's still as he comes, wrapped around Steve and just barely pumping his hips, his cock thick and hot.

Barnes flops onto his back, huffing and boneless, but not before he tugs Steve to him, tucking Steve under his arm to lie against his chest. It's too sticky and warm under the quilt, but it's hard to care listening to Barnes' heartbeat. Barnes brushes Steve's hair down, hand lazily tracing his shoulder and chest as Steve drifts off.

“Need to get a bigger bed,” Barnes mumbles into Steve's hair.

“Hmmmmn?” Steve mumbles, too sleepy and fucked out to know better.

“When we ship home,” Barnes mumbles, and Steve goes wide awake at that. It's not fair, it can't be happening. They were supposed to have a couple more good weeks for Steve to pine and forget about how much Brooklyn will hurt. “Th'place I was renting had a bed this size, 's too small to cuddle.”

Steve pushes himself sitting, swinging his legs off the bed, fumbling for his clothes.

“Where you going?” Barnes says, pushing himself up on his elbows.

“Who said we're doing this in Brooklyn?” Steve says, because that's easier than telling Barnes how cruel he's been this whole time, because there's never been a girl at home for Barnes but he's only just telling Steve now.

“Why wouldn't we?” Barnes says as Steve gets his pants on, and he's all the way awake now too, sitting up in bed.

“Because I'm not a whore and I'm not your girl,” Steve says, buttoning his shirt cuffs so he doesn't have to look at Barnes.

“I never said you were—“

“I told you I don't do this at home,” Steve says to his cuffs. Not even Barnes is worth that, if that's how he thinks things are.

“That's not—that's not what I meant,” Barnes says, and he sounds like he even means it. “Dugan and Morita are getting a place together, why not us?”

“That's not the same.” The faster Steve can get his shoes on, the faster he can get out of here.

“Well, no, but no one else has to know that.” Barnes catches Steve by the wrist and pulls Steve to him, to stand between Barnes' knees so Steve has to look at him, shoelaces still untied. He looks serious, and sincere, and Steve just wants to crawl back in his lap. “Steve. C'mon, get a place with me. What else are you going to do, go back to flophouses?”

Steve pulls his wrist out of Barnes' grasp, but Barnes just yanks him back. “I don't need your charity.”

“Stevie, it's not charity. You can shine my shoes and take out the trash,” Barnes says with a weak smile and Steve wants to slap him.

“I can get by on my own. I got by just fine without you.”

“On what, your blue drawings?” Barnes says, frowning deeper when Steve doesn't answer, because yeah, it paid the rent, but he had a couple of ad clients and that exhibition scheduled before the Army finally took him, he can get back on his feet again. “What kind of life is that, pennies for other guys' wank fantasies?” Barnes says, and Steve tries to pull out of his grip, but Barnes just yanks his wrist tighter. “You're so fucking prideful, and what do you have to prove—“

“What kind of a life is it getting fucked on the side until you find a girl to marry?”

Barnes' breath catches like Steve had slapped him, his hand gone weak around Steve's wrist. “Don't lie to me,” Steve says. “You lie to yourself enough as it is.” Barnes finally lets him pull away at that, and Steve makes for the door before he regrets it.

“Steve,” Barnes says just as Steve fumbles for the doorknob, and he makes the mistake of looking back at Barnes. “Please.”

Barnes looks younger, and softer, than he has the whole time Steve's known him, sitting naked on the edge of the bed in the gray afternoon light. Steve doesn't even know what Barnes is asking for, and he wonders if Barnes knows himself. Steve looks at the doorknob in his hand, at his untied shoes, at Barnes. “Why?” he says finally.

“I told you why,” Barnes says. “Please.”

Steve hesitates, trying to decide whether to stay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun choose-your-own-adventure pain: Steve walks out the door and this is the last time they see each other [until 1949](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3353516/chapters/9132568), or Steve stays and something like the end of CAFTA/CATWS happens to one of them. join me in my unending misery.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this chapter isn't completely horrid. I'm working on another post-war chapter to balance things out :p

They're back in London for the fourth, and Steve doesn't say anything about it because he doesn't particularly want to remember his last birthday in London. Steve wonders sometimes how Private Ritchie and the girls are, but other than that he doesn't think about the pro station too much. Not much to miss.

Steve's content to let the fourth pass without remark, except maybe the hope that the guys will cat around to the pro stations for the holiday and let him have some rest. They're all gone by early afternoon of the third, leaving Steve to cool his heels and sketch with Barnes restlessly shuffling paperwork around his makeshift desk.

“You want a hand there sarge?” Steve says. Not like he can get anything down on this sketch with Barnes jiggling his foot and shuffling everything around without really looking at it.

“'S your day off,” Barnes says without looking up from his paperwork. So. Steve won't be getting any rest on his birthday after all.

He must make a face, or something, because Steve glances down at the notebook in his hands and then Barnes is crossing the room to him with two wrapped packages under his arm. Steve shifts over, unsure if Barnes is taking him up on his offer after all.

Barnes shifts uncomfortably on the cot next to him, settling the two packages next to him.

“The fellas wanted you to have this,” he says after a beat. Barnes hands over the smaller of the two--and it's. Barnes watches him unwrap the string and newsprint, and Steve's not sure what he expected, but a pair of socks and a fifth of whiskey isn't it.

They must have looked at his file, or at least Barnes must have, and Steve flushes wondering what all Barnes had seen in his file besides his birthdate—his intake photo, his clean bill of health, Wahlberg's notes, the number of men Steve's been fucked by.  
  
Steve clears his throat and tries not to think about it. “Thanks, sarge, I—thanks.”  
  
“Monty made those,” Barnes grunts, without looking Steve in the eye. His hand curls around the other package next to him. “My, uh, my ma sent you this.”  
  
He hands it over, and it's definitely not what Steve expects. An olive drab pull over with canvas patches, regulation like the guys all have except Steve's size, and his eyes sting suddenly as he holds it up.

Barnes clears his throat when Steve doesn't say anything. “She said on account of you not having any family in Brooklyn, you'd be welcome to Christmas and Thanksgiving after the war. If you care to.”  
  
“I--thank you, sarge. That--that means a lot,” Steve says, because the last few Christmases have been on his own or at the church rectory, and Mrs. O'Brien the rector's wife passed away last spring.  
  
“It's nothing,” Barnes says without taking his eyes off the cigarette he's lighting, and maybe it is nothing for him. He told his ma about Steve, and told her his measurements, and Steve's desperate enough for it to mean more than it does.  
  
“The boys and me are going out tonight, if you care to. Jones said he'd borrow you his tabs if you want to go along to the cat house.”  
  
“I--the pro station?” Steve's chapped hands curl around the sweater in his lap, not sure he heard right. “You're not having me reassigned?”  
  
“Christ, what, Rogers, no,” Barnes says, looking over at him for the first time. “You can come along to the pro station like one of the guys. Twenty-two's old enough to make time with a gal prettier than Dugan, you know?” Barnes says, and bumps Steve with his shoulder, but there's no joke in his voice and this feels like another trap now that the guys all think they know what Steve hasn't done with Agent Carter.

* * *

It's uncomfortably different, being on this side of the waiting room. Barnes takes mercy and steers them away from the pro station closer to the SSR, the one where he'd picked Steve up, but the set up is familiar enough, the girls' photos on the chalkboard along one wall and the bored private at the desk calling names. Steve flushes to the roots of his hair when he sits next to Dugan and his feet don't quite touch the floor.

There isn't much of a rush this early in the evening, but by the time Steve realizes what Barnes is doing, it's too late, Barnes slipping cash across the desk to the private on duty and glancing back at Steve. Dugan claps him on the back too hard and Monty and Dernier whistle when the private calls Steve's name ahead of everyone else on the list, jumping him ahead of everybody who'd been waiting for the prettiest girl.

Steve takes one glance back at Barnes, who's studiously not looking at him, and only catches the glares of the guys Steve was jumped ahead of. Steve concentrates on following the private back to the girls' rooms, thinking better of it every step of the way.

“You're a little short for a soldier, soldier,” the girl says as the door closes, and it's not exactly unkind. Steve glances down at his shoes, because it's easier than looking at her. She's pretty in frilly panties and not much else, her nipples pert and her blond hair curled over one shoulder where it hasn't been mussed by a whole rush hour shift yet.

“What's your name?” Steve says, still standing against the door.

“Lorraine,” she says, and Steve knows that's not her real name but it helps. He risks a look up at her and she's smiling. “This your first time, sugar?”

“I—sorry, no, I'm—I'm an auxiliary—I should go,” Steve says, hand on the door knob. He can't even say exactly why this is so uncomfortable except that she looks nothing like Agent Carter and the guys are all going to badger him about this as soon as he steps out the door, pleased with themselves for buying his first time with a woman.

“You're the pro boy from station two,” Lorraine says with her eyebrows raised, and Steve blushes again. “So you didn't get killed on the front lines after all.”

“No ma'am,” he says, and makes himself lift his jaw. She watches him with an appraising look and Steve makes himself stay where he is as she unfolds herself from the bed.

She's taller than him by half a head and it's an effort to keep his eyes above her shoulders for more reason than just that as she crosses the room on bare feet. She doesn't crowd him against the door like the guys would, but there's nowhere else to go when she leans in to kiss him, head ducked. She's warm and undemanding, and maybe she doesn't look anything like Agent Carter but maybe that's okay.

“Y'know,” she says thoughtfully, wetting her lips. “The girls at two always said you were a cunning linguist, if you're saving the other for someone else.”

Steve ducks his head, and yeah, maybe he'd missed that part a little.

* * *

It's about two and a half hours later when Steve stumbles back out to the waiting room, hair a mess. Dugan elbows Barnes in the side where Barnes is dozing, Monty and Dernier gone.

“Good birthday?” Barnes says, voice carefully neutral as Dugan stands and wipes lipstick off Steve's cheek with his shirt cuff.

“Don't be a stranger,” Lorraine calls from the doorway, Ruby and Marta and another girl whose name he didn't catch crowded behind her, silky robes pulled around them as the soldiers in the waiting room perk up and eye Steve skeptically.

Barnes steers them out of there with a hand on Steve's elbow and a vague scowl in the girls' direction, Dugan trying to cover a laugh behind his hand. “Told you they wouldn't need that much bribing, sarge.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late 1945/early 1946, if both Bucky and Steve live through the war and move back to Brooklyn together instead of being sad.

It's not much, when the landlord lets them into the sixth floor walkup and drops the keys in Barnes' palm without a look at Steve, but it's got big windows on two sides and a built-in sideboard with a mirror, so Steve can see Barnes tip a smile at him in the reflection before Barnes turns and crowds him up against the closed door.

Steve's duffel lands on the hardwood a moment after Barnes', the sound loud in the bare space as Barnes lifts him up against the door, shaking it on its hinges. The landlord has to still be in the hallway, but Barnes just laughs and nips at Steve's neck. “Welcome home,” he says, yanking Steve's tie and shirt off.

* * *

Barnes spreads a sheet and blanket over the bare mattress after, propping Steve up before lying him down too gently. Steve rolls onto his belly and pillows his head on his arms, watching Barnes strip the rest of the way. They made it. They're both alive and they're in Brooklyn. A real kitchen with an electric ice box and their own bathroom. Steve couldn't have asked for more.

Barnes is all thick muscle in the afternoon light, the hard lines of him softened not one bit in the warm light. He catches Steve looking and grins, boyishly happy, leaning down to kiss.

“You're beautiful like this,” Barnes says, climbing into the bare bed after him. He props himself up on one elbow next to Steve, smoothing a broad, calloused hand down his back. “Could fuck you all day.”

He follows through on it too, pushing two fingers into Steve where he's still slick with Barnes' come and sensitive, making him arch his back. “You gonna come again like this?” Barnes murmurs against Steve's shoulder. “I'm gonna make you come on my fingers and then I'm gonna fuck your tight, skinny ass, you want it?"

"Could do this all day," Steve breathes, fingers twisting in the sheets as Barnes leans in to bite his shoulder.

* * *

Supper's four hours cold by the time Barnes comes home.

“Fuck me, I'm tired. Dugan and Morita said hello,” Barnes says, stinking like beer and kicking his shoes off in the middle of the living room. He flops down on the couch and wrinkles his nose. “Stinks like cabbage and boiled beef. You figure those micks upstairs had another baby?”

“You didn't tell me you were seeing them,” Steve says, because the beef roast wasn't very good anyway.

“Yeah, Gabe's in law school, if you can believe that. What's for supper?”

Steve looks at his hands, joints aching from his day of walking his portfolio around town and standing over the stove. They can afford another roast, and Steve'll take it for his lunch rather than putting cabbage on the table again. “I hadn't started it yet,” he lies.

“We'll go down to the automat later,” Barnes says, and sits back with his legs spread. Steve knows well enough what he means, and goes over to let Barnes twist fingers in his hair.

* * *

“Don't,” Steve says, shrugging Barnes away from where his shoulder is already starting to bruise. Barnes just hums and rolls his hips into Steve, fucking him through it, the both of them tucked into the warm dark of the bedroom.

“Don't what,” Barnes says. He leans in to mouth at the back of Steve's neck and shoulders, where he's already left enough little bite marks that Steve has to keep his collar tugged up all day because there's no girl in the world that would give him hickies fucking him from behind like this.

“Don't where people can see, I got that job,” Steve says, and Barnes has him flipped over on his back before he's even finished saying it.

“Yeah?” Barnes says. He smiles wickedly in the dark, hooking Steve's knees over his shoulders before fucking into him again in one smooth motion. “And what about here?” he says, biting the inside of Steve's thigh, hot and bright.

* * *

“I have to get to work,” Steve says, pushing Barnes off him. He's still slick and sore from that morning, no time for a shower after Barnes fucked him slow and lazy.

“Come on, we'll make it quick.” Barnes keeps him pinned against the table, grinding his thickening cock against Steve's ass.

“I'm gonna lose my job if I show up late again.”

“Then you can come work for me. Always need another file clerk.”

“Yeah? Play house at night and secretary during the day?” Steve says, tipping his head back and letting Barnes stroke him through his trousers.

Barnes laughs dirtily in his ear, undoing Steve's trousers with one hand. Steve plants hands on the table, back arched so that Barnes can tug his hips back and fuck him good. “You do look good in an apron,” Barnes breathes as he pushes in.

* * *

“Fuck me, I'm tired,” Barnes says as he shuts the door behind him. Steve glances up at him, careful to not smudge the graphite of the piece he's working on. He's spread all over the dining table, but it's not as if they ever eat supper at home anyway. They'll go out to the diner like usual when Steve's finished with the piece.

Barnes drops into his armchair, toeing off his shoes and spreading his legs where he leans back. Steve knows well enough what he means, and stays right where he is to finish the piece.

* * *

“Where you been?” Barnes says, looking up from a newspaper he hadn't been reading as Steve latches the door behind him. He'd been hoping Barnes would have gone to bed without him, but of course he hasn't.

Steve slings his hat and coat over the peg in the coat closet, still a little drunk and not interested in this fight. “Out,” he says, and makes for the bathroom. It can wait til morning, after he's showered and sobered up.

Barnes follows him to the little bathroom, stands in the door as Steve brushes his teeth. He's big and broad even in his slippers and cardigan, and Steve wonders not for the first time what Barnes thinks this is, dressed like someone respectable. Steve holds onto the cold porcelain of the sink as he rinses his teeth and wishes Arnie hadn't been right about Barnes.

Because he just stands there blocking the door when Steve's done, frowning like someone's father.

“You think I'm stepping out on you?” Steve demands when Barnes won't say anything.

“Are you?” Barnes says evenly. He looks older in the cold bathroom light. _Aren't you—y'know?_ Barnes had always had his mind made up about what Steve was or wasn't.

“You had lipstick on your collar in the wash,” Steve says, and Barnes has the decency to look ashamed of himself.

“I went dancing,” Barnes says. “I walked her to a cab.”

“I was out. I'm going to bed,” Steve says, and shoulders past Barnes.

“Would you tell me if you were?” Barnes says when Steve's halfway down the hallway.

Steve half turns, puts a hand on the wall to keep himself steady while the floor sways gently under him. “Would you tell me?”

“Yeah,” Barnes says without a pause. Steve even mostly believes him.

“I was playing cards. At the bar on fourth and Lark.”

Barnes drops it at that, letting Steve stumble to bed. Steve kicks off his shoes and struggles out of his clothes, listening to Barnes move around their little apartment. He comes to bed a half hour later and Steve pretends to be asleep when Barnes tucks in behind him.

* * *

“I have to get to work,” Steve says, pushing Barnes off him as Steve tries to clear the breakfast dishes.

“Come on, we'll make it quick.” Barnes brackets him against the table, trying to keep him in place.

“I need to go,” Steve says, ducking out from under Barnes' arms hemming him in, because he really can't afford to be late again. “I'll see you tonight,” he says on his way out the door, and ignores the way Barnes frowns at his back.

* * *

“He didn't,” Arnie laughs, spilling his beer, almost soaking his cards.

“He did, pants down and everything,” Steve says. Ernie and Roy snort over their cards, laying out their second trick of the hand.

Steve's just turning to order another round when he spots them scanning the bar, Dugan giving Ginger a distasteful once over where she's just winked at him from the stage. Barnes stands by the door with his hands in his pockets, and they look out of place enough that they might be vice cops, everyone around them giving them a wide berth until Barnes spots Steve and makes straight for him.

Arnie schools his face better than Roy and Ernie do, watching Barnes and Dugan pull up chairs and signal for beers. “What's the ante, ladies?” Dugan says. Even the bartender gives them a look.

“It's euchre,” Roy says more than a little nastily, getting up and taking his beer with him. Ernie follows, mouthing a _sorry_ behind Barnes' back as he goes.

“What are you doing here?” Steve demands as Barnes scoops up the deck, Ernie and Roy's tricks abandoned on the sticky table. Barnes just starts shuffling, blithe, while Arnie gives Steve a look and Dugan goes back to scowling at Ginger.

“Been a while since we played cards,” Barnes shrugs. “You in?” Barnes says to Arnie, acknowledging him for the first time as the bartender sets down their beers.

Arnie downs the last of his beer and gives Steve a pat on the shoulder as he gets up. “Got to be going. See you around, Steve.”

“Beer's almost as bad as the singing,” Dugan says, taking his cards as Barnes deals.

* * *

Barnes wraps around him at night, cupping Steve through his shorts without asking. Barnes kisses down the back of his neck, grinding his hard cock into the back of Steve's thigh.

Steve scoots away, rolling onto his belly to get away from Barnes' hands. Barnes follows, mouthing the ridge of Steve's shoulder and playing with the band of Steve's shorts.

“Not tonight,” Steve says, shrugging Barnes off.

“What's got into you lately?” Barnes says, pulling away finally. “You never used to be so contrary.”

“It used to be my job,” Steve says. He can't see the face Barnes makes and he doesn't particularly want to, because, yeah, Steve's mad about it and maybe looking to pick a fight because this is exactly what he didn't want moving in together to be.

Barnes sits up, and Steve can feel him frowning in the dark. “Is that what it always was?” Barnes asks.

Steve rolls onto his back, some of the fight gone out of him, but he still can't quite look at Barnes. “Sometimes, yeah,” he says eventually.

“Then why are you here?”

Steve lets that hang in the air, because isn't that what he's been asking himself for the last few weeks. He tips his head to look at Barnes sitting up beside him, just waiting. “Because it wasn't always,” Steve says. Or at least, he doesn't think so. It's been hard to tell lately.

Barnes makes a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a punch in the gut. “So how do you want it to be now?” he asks.

Steve sits up next to him, shoulder to shoulder sitting against the headboard. He can feel Barnes waiting for him, the warmth of him along Steve's arm where they're not quite touching. “Different,” Steve says finally, because what other word is there for it. “It's not my job any more.”

“Okay,” Barnes says in the dark, and Steve almost believes him. “Okay.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an actual happy fluff chapter! or at least, I'm pretty sure it's unsad, I don't know any more.

Steve wakes up warm for a change, and grinds his hard dick into Sergeant Barnes' ass before he's awake enough to think better of it. Barnes sighs and tucks back against Steve, still heavily asleep. Barnes has Steve trapped, one of Steve's arms over Barnes' chest and pinned by his arm draped back to curl a hand around Steve's thigh slung over Barnes' hip. No getting out of it without waking up Barnes and Steve wants to die of embarrassment. Tucked safe and warm in barracks with Phillips' men in the little NCO's billet, and this is how Steve Rogers dies, of acute blood loss from a poorly timed morning erection.

He should just be able to pick up Barnes's hand and squirm away from him, but Barnes is a contrary, stubborn son of a bitch even deep asleep, and he just holds onto Steve's leg slung over him more firmly, settling so that Steve's hard cock is pressed right up against his ass.

Steve breathes shallow where his nose is pressed to Barnes' undershirt below his shoulder blades. If he can pretend to still be asleep when Barnes wakes up, he probably won't be too sore about it. Not like it's Steve's fault Barnes is warm and tucked back against him to spoon. But if Steve could just make like he had to get up to use the john, maybe Barnes wouldn't notice Steve's cock throbbing harder the longer he stays there. Steve could sneak off to the john, hope none of the guys would notice, and take care of it before he comes back to bed.

All he has to do is get himself out of this situation before Barnes wakes up for reveille. Not a problem.

“Where you goin', Rogers?” Barnes says, voice still thick with sleep and he doesn't move an inch even as Steve tries to pull away. Barnes draws circles on the back of Steve's knee with his blunt fingertips and tugs Steve back closer; he has to be able to tell, even still half asleep.

“Sorry, sarge, I—sorry, I didn't want you to think—“

“What, you don't want me to know you like my ass? I've got a great ass, Dugan says so all the time,” Barnes says, stretching against Steve. He's solid muscle, lazy and sure of himself. “You're gonna give a guy a complex, Rogers.”

“I—“ Steve chokes.

“Where's your grease?” Barnes says, snuggling back against him like this isn't Steve's wildest fantasies.

Barnes tips his head back to slant a glance at Steve when he doesn't say anything, and then Barnes sights it on the windowsill past Steve's shoulder, sitting up to pull his undershirt off and reach for it over Steve. It's still too dark to see Barnes as anything but a silhouette, thick muscle shaded in blues against the dark window.

Steve thinks for a minute he's read it wrong and starts to turn over so Barnes can fuck him, but Barnes puts a heavy hand on his chest to keep him where he is. Barnes kicks out of his drawers in one easy movement, pulling Steve's shirt off him with a heavy lidded look.

Steve makes an embarrassing noise as Barnes leans in to kiss him and slick up Steve's cock, Barnes' hand tight and sure. Barnes hums a noise against Steve's mouth and bites his lip before pulling away, smiling like he knows something Steve doesn't, and this is Steve's real life, Barnes settling back to spoon with his bare ass pressed back against Steve's hard cock.

Barnes pulls one of Steve's arms around his chest, so that Steve clings to him for dear life with his cheek pressed to the middle of Barnes' back, too short to even make it to his shoulder. Steve shivers against him as Barnes reaches between them and guides Steve's cock between his thighs, and if it's not quite the same as getting to fuck Barnes it's still more than Steve had any right to hope for. With the vaseline it's slick and tight and warm, Steve's breath coming short as Barnes jerks himself off in slow, lazy strokes. He's almost too broad to put arms around and Steve can feel the muscles of his shoulder and back moves as he strokes himself, letting Steve pretend to fuck him.

Steve comes almost surprised by it, hot embarrassment almost washing out how good it feels when he comes between Barnes' thick thighs, Barnes shuddering back against him. Steve tips his face down against Barnes' back, as if he can hide how embarrassingly quickly he came and the mess he made when of course Barnes can feel it.

Barnes hauls Steve around then, rolling onto his back and heaving Steve onto Barnes' chest like he weighs nothing, and Steve goes liquid now that things will go normal again. But Barnes just keeps stroking himself, and when he tugs Steve's hand down to cover his own, Steve can feel Barnes' cock is slick with Steve's come.

Steve shudders, moaning into Barnes' neck, enveloped in the warm, salty smell of him as Barnes gets close. Anybody awake enough to hear would think it was Steve getting fucked, a dirty little secret just between the two of them as Barnes cups Steve's jaw and brings him up to kiss as Barnes finishes.

Steve sprawls across Barnes' chest, boneless as a dish rag with come sticky and warm between them. Barnes sighs even and deep, heavy arms over Steve's back.

“This okay?” Barnes says, sounding halfway back to sleep.

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles back. His hips will hurt in the morning from sleeping on top of Barnes and he'll smell like sex, but it'll hardly be new. “Yeah, sarge, I'm good.”

“Hey,” Barnes says. “Told you not to call me that in bed.”

“Yeah, Bucky, this is good," Steve sighs against his chest.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually slips this in out of order*
> 
> wrote this a couple months ago for the HTP meme and then couldn't figure out how to post it while in the midst of Bucky/Steve/Peggy, so here it goes. probably consider this not actually happening in the same timeline as anything else, or at least ch 17-26.

Rogers doesn't say anything when he comes back looking like he got run over by a jeep, Bucky and the guys staring at him over their game of cards.  
  
“The hell happened to you?” Dugan says before Bucky can get it together enough to say anything.  
  
“Got in a fight,” Rogers says without breaking stride or looking at them on his way to the showers. He’s a prideful, contrary son of a bitch when he wants to be.  
  
“Tell the MPs he's not here if they show up,” Bucky says to the guys, tossing down his cards to follow Rogers into the showers. Rogers won’t be able to see out of one eye by nightfall, and if there’s one thing Bucky knows about him, it’s that the scrappy little shit at least tried to give as good as he got.  
  
The joke Bucky was going to make about how the other guy looks dies on his lips before he makes it two steps into the showers, Rogers standing there under the cold spray with blood running down his thighs. He’s standing with his head bent under the spray like his strings have been cut, but he stiffens as soon as he hears Bucky’s boots on the tile, and he puts his back to the tile wall when he catches sight of Bucky over his shoulder. The water’s too cold to even give him steam to hide behind, and the white tile’s streaked with blood where he leans against it anyway.

There’s a cigarette burn in the crease of his thigh.  
  
“You barge in on Dugan and Jones like this?” Steve demands before Bucky can say anything, the tile floor heaving under his boots like he’s going to be sick.  
  
“If they dragged in bleeding out the ass, yeah, maybe,” Bucky says, one side of hysterical, even he can hear with his voice bouncing back off the tile.

Steve flinches like Bucky slapped him, and when he looks away, Bucky hopes like hell that his eyelashes are wet from the shower because Bucky’s not sure he can handle anything else. Steve’s cheeks are blotchy and red like he’s run a mile despite the cold water. Bucky crosses the room in two steps and turns it off.  
  
“You’re going to the doctor,” he says, rounding on Steve with a towel just as Steve dances away from him.  
  
“I’m clean,” Steve says, the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice too. “They all wore rubbers, I’m clean, I don’t--”  
  
“The fuck do you mean they _all_ wore rubbers?” Bucky snarls, Steve backing himself into a corner blanched white as the tile past the blotchy redness in his cheeks. He’s got no fucking sense in a fight, boxing himself in like it’ll protect his back, and now that Bucky sees that, he can’t not see Steve, fragile, breakable Steve, getting boxed into a corner by fuck knows how many guys, and this happening while Bucky was playing goddamn cards with his thumb up his ass.  
  
“I’m clean, I don’t need an exam, I’m clean,” Steve repeats, full on hysterics now as Bucky grabs him by one clammy cold arm to haul out and wrap in the towel. Steve fights him but Bucky’s stronger and meaner, wrapping arms around him and pulling Steve against his chest until Steve goes limply where Bucky drags him, his wet hair icy against Bucky’s shoulder. He starts shivering as Bucky rubs him dry, wracking, full body shudders that Bucky tells himself is just the icy cold shower.  
  
He stiffens after a second, though, and when Bucky looks down to see why, Rogers is staring at the open door, where Morita is waiting with the first aid kit in hand and the guys waiting for Bucky’s say so behind him. Rogers breathes shallow and fast against Bucky’s pocket like he’s looking at a firing squad, and maybe he is. The guys would hold him down and patch him up if Bucky said so. He’d never win a fight against all of them, that much is painfully clear.

“Leave the iodine and a couple of carlisles,” Bucky says over his shoulder. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, but he can get Rogers calmed down enough to let Morita take a look at him. “And close the fucking door.” Even if it was Bucky who left it open in the first place for all they guys to see.  
  
The guys back off at that, Dugan and Monty giving Bucky a significant look before they leave to go find the assholes who need murdering.  
  
Morita hesitates, but he sets the first aid kit down inside the door and lays a couple of things out from it. “Burn cream, sulfa, aspirin, bismuth subcarbonate. Make him drink water.”  
  
“He doesn’t need a goddamn pharmacy--” Bucky starts.  
  
“He needs to not shit for a couple of days,” Morita snaps back, and Rogers flinches where he’s trying to hide against Bucky’s chest, his knobby bare knees knocking together.  
  
“Close the goddamn door,” Bucky says by way of conceding the argument; Morita does, but not before Dernier sets a bottle of brandy next to the neatly laid out first aid kit.  
  
The drip of the shower and Steve’s ragged breathing against Bucky’s chest is loud with the door closed. Bucky hauls him by the arm to the bench by the door rather than think about it, Steve stumbling on the wet tile so that Bucky has to catch him. Bucky sits heavily before his knees give out on him, but Steve folds to his knees before Bucky can haul him into his lap like he meant to. Steve’s knees crack on the tile, his hands on Bucky’s belt before he knows what’s happening with the towel falling around him, leaving him naked and goosefleshed as he goes to work on Bucky’s belt.  
  
“The fuck are you--” Bucky says, yanking Steve’s hands away by the wrist.  
  
“I’m still clean, I can suck you--” Steve says, pig stubborn even with his eyes rimmed red and his lashes wet.  
  
“You’re not doing a goddamn thing with your lip split,” Bucky snaps, and Steve flinches away from him again even with Bucky holding his wrists. He looks like death warmed over in the harsh light bounced off tile, his lips swollen and raw where they were cut against his teeth and his eye starting to swell shut.  
  
He won’t get up off the tile until Bucky bullies him up onto the bench to get a look at the cigarette burn, all the fight drained out of him. Bucky bullies him into drinking some brandy too; at the very least it might make him sleep, instead of staring at Bucky blankly, not even a hiss as Bucky dabs the burn cream on.  
  
His ass is a swollen, ruined mess when Bucky finally makes him lie back on the bench to take a look, but most of the bleeding’s done. He wasn’t lying when he said they wore condoms, because it looks like he was fucked dry by however many it was, and that finally gets a reaction out of him, a sharp hiss of breath as Bucky’s fingers graze his swollen hole. He might be clean, but he won’t be fucking anyone for a while, especially if Bucky has anything to say about it.  
  
“Sorry,” Steve says to the ceiling while Bucky’s kneeling there between his legs, dabbing him with iodine. That snaps Bucky’s head up to look at him, Steve’s limp cock lying against his thigh where Bucky made him put one foot up on the bench. He’s got freckles across the tops of his knees and a birthmark inside his thigh, the one that wasn’t burned. “I know you don’t want to fuck me like this, I didn’t mean--” he hiccups once and his voice shakes, because he’s a wet, messy drunk, gone on three pulls of the brandy between the stress and no dinner and being tiny and breakable. “They called you a faggot and I--”  
  
Bucky scoops Rogers into his lap, Steve going with it easily this time, letting Bucky wrap arms around him because he’s shivering again, full body shudders in Bucky’s lap as Bucky rocks him.  
  
“I’m still clean, I can—tomorrow, I can—”  
  
“Steve, I don’t care. It’s not your fault, I don’t care,” Bucky says, petting his hair until Steve’s breathing evens out. He weighs barely anything, radiating cold through Bucky’s sweater and undershirt.  
  
“Sorry, sarge,” Steve says after a couple of deep breaths, swiping at his eyes and trying to pull away so they can both pretend he wasn’t just crying in Bucky’s lap.  
  
“Christ, Steve, I’m sorry, the fuck are you sorry for,” Bucky says, letting Rogers slide down to sit on the bench next to him and pull the scraps of his dignity around himself. But Steve leans into his side, so Bucky keeps his arm around him a while longer.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a multiple chapter arc, alternating Steve and Peggy POV. As per usual, everyone is kind of mean to Steve. This chapter overlaps with [the Bucky POV in chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3353516/chapters/7356743).

**Peggy**

The rest of them haven't got one regulation uniform between them, but the new one has his tie and cap on straight, hair combed neat even though they're just in from two weeks in the field. He's got big eyes and a bigger nose, and Peggy can't place why he's there until his collar tabs click into place.

The Americans are barbaric.

Barnes sits straight in his chair, so that it's only his affect that's insouciant. Not enough to say anything about and he knows it. Phillips frowns at him.

“What've you got, Barnes?” Phillips says, pulling his chair out and gearing for a fight.

“The same as usual, sir,” Barnes says. If Peggy can hear the sigh behind it, it's only because they've done this dance so many times. “We rolled in, we blew it up, we brought back the pieces. They're all there and the men could use a rest since there's not much else to report.”

“Barnes,” Phillips says, leaning across the table. “I hope you're as damn sick of seeing my ugly face as I am of seeing yours, because I know you know that I know that you know a hell of a lot more detail than what you have down in your paperwork. I want numbers of krauts dead, what color shorts they were wearing, and what they had for breakfast before they went to the big bierstube in the sky, you understand me? Nobody gets a shit, shower _or_ a shave until I'm satisfied you've told us about every puckered asshole and weasel fart between here and the Danube, pardon my French Agent Carter. The same as usual.”

“It's all there, sir,” Barnes says. “The same as usual.”

“They had new guns,” the proboy says, and every eye in the place snaps to him, the Commandoes perking to attention for the first time and Barnes looking sour. “The same energy packs, but big. A couple squads of them, enough to take a platoon.”

“Saw all that on your back, did you?” Phillips snaps.

Barnes's proboy blushes to the roots of his hair but stands his ground, and Peggy has to admire him for that. “No sir, I saw it while I was on my belly under a pile of leaves. A battalion rolled past me.” Barnes laughs under his breath a little at that, and if it's not unkind, it's not exactly a kind laugh, either. Peggy wonders for the first time if the Americans conscript their auxiliaries as well as their soldiers and what kind of man Barnes must be to laugh at his conscripted proboy.

“And you counted nose and toes on each and every one of these krauts, did you son?” Phillips says.

And the proboy says back, with a perfectly straight face and even look, “I'm good at keeping track of soldiers, sir.”

Dugan and Morita laugh at that, snickering together like schoolboys, and Barnes' proboy blushes deeper but doesn't blink, just squares his shoulders and keeps his chin up. Peggy likes him.

“What sort of arms did they have?” Peggy asks. Dugan and Morita snicker to themselves again.

The proboy looks her in the eye; looks like he wants to address Phillips instead, but doesn't. “I don't know what they're called, ma'am, but I could draw it for you if I had paper.”

“We don't have time for this--” Phillips starts, but Peggy cuts him off by pushing her notepad across the table at the proboy.

There's a long pause, a long, uncomfortable silence where Barnes looks across the table at Peggy like she's insulted his mother, and Phillips looks across the table at the proboy like something he's scraped off the bottom of a shoe. The Commandoes shift and mutter between themselves, the lot of them barely polite to begin with but edging on mutinous the longer the proboy draws.

And draw he does; even upside down, Peggy can see him sketch out first the guns they know about, then terrible things, nightmare things that might account for the destruction that's left the Allied armies reeling the past few weeks.

“Well, shit,” Phillips says when the proboy slides the notepad back across the table. There's the usual side arms, but a bigger set of rifles as well, the sort that make men disappear, and a man sketched wearing an articulated sort of rucksack with what might as well be the business end of a tank.

“Problem, sir?” Barnes says, and Peggy can see him carefully sizing up his proboy. Barnes's men hold their breath and the proboy squares his shoulders. All of them wondering if Phillips is going to call this hysterical nonsense.

“You see this thing in action, son?” Phillips asks the proboy, ignoring Barnes and his question. “You think you could tell Stark how this thing fires, what kind of range it's got, all that?”

The proboy licks his lips. Just the barest hesitation before throwing himself in the line of fire between Barnes and Phillips. “Yes sir, I think so sir.”

Phillips stands up, flicking a hand at Barnes and his men. “Barnes, get out of here and take the rest of this sorry lot with you. Next time you're deployed I want your boy here out in the field with a waterproof book and a camera. Come on,” Phillips says, and sweeps Peggy and the proboy out of the room before Barnes can say anything.

* * *

“This is more than they ever brought back before,” Peggy says after, looking over the maps and sketches Rogers gave them.

“Auxiliary's got a good memory,” Phillips says. They watch the proboy jog across camp, back to where Barnes and his men prop up the walls of the commissary and make trouble. “I want you to pull him in for SSR.”

“Barnes won't like it,” Peggy says. She watches the Commandoes circle around the proboy as he comes back, wary and uncertain of him until Barnes takes him by the shoulder and shakes him. Barnes is a territorial man, dark and hard to read, as likely to execute prisoners in the field as he is to interrogate them. The SSR needs him, but he's too angry, too personally invested to be truly useful to them.

“Barnes doesn't have to like it, and he doesn't have to know,” Phillips says as Barnes and his men take the proboy off somewhere private. “I want you to check out the auxiliary, make sure he's clean for field work. Plenty of red sympathizers in that part of New York.”

* * *

**Steve**

Miss Carter is terrifying. Miss Carter is beautiful.

She looks like she sees straight through him, her full attention on him the second he opens his fool mouth. Her and Barnes have the same dangerous intensity, quiet and deadly. They both make him feel stupid and slow, and Steve finds himself dawdling whenever they're back to camp in hopes of catching a glimpse of her striding through camp with her hair done just so and not a second of time for him even when she acknowledges him.

She's something else, and a little fantasy of being smart and handsome enough to get her attention never hurt anybody. Steve doodles her until Barnes catches him at it, and then doodles himself as the dancing monkey trying to get her attention. She's a smart, beautiful gal; no wonder she hasn't go the time of day for him.

Except she showed up to the pub that night, in that red dress, and Steve sat straight to attention even though he knew, knew in his bones, that she'd rather dance with someone handsome and graceful like Barnes than ever waste a minute on a guy like Steve. A little fantasy that she might, just might, be there to smile at him never hurt anybody. Even if she ended up dancing all night with Barnes.

Except that she _didn't_ , except that she asked _Steve_ to dance, and he could hardly believe his luck enough to even think about it until Barnes yanked him out of there, putting a stop to that and putting Steve back in his place.

If it hurt, Steve never should have gotten his hopes up in the first place.

Miss Carter is beautiful, and an officer, and someone like Steve was never going to have a chance with her anyway.

So it doesn't make any sense, no sense at all, when they roll back to London and Barnes hands him papers. An address in Bletchley Park; proof of Army-issue prophylaxis; request for temporary reassignment off base—

Because of course nothing about Steve's fantasies had been based in reality. He's an auxiliary; Margaret Carter requested an auxiliary. He should never have expected it to go anywhere, much less Miss Carter's private apartment. Barnes watches Steve comb his hair and straighten his tie, and restraighten his tie, and restraighten his tie, until his nerves from being watched and whistled at by the guys are worse than his nerves about what Miss Carter actually wants from him, and he goes.

Except when he shows up at six in the evening on the dot, standing so stiff he's afraid he'll fall over himself, she sits him down at her neat little kitchen table and ignores him. It's a little apartment, just barely the size of the room Steve rented before he shipped out. She draws the blackout curtains, and pulls down teacups, and Steve twists his hands in his lap. There's her bed on the wall with the window, the little kitchenette with hot plate and tea kettle, and a cot curtained off in one corner obviously meant for him.

He's never had anyone bother with pretense before; the WAACs and the USO girls had all gotten straight to the point, same as soldiers and sailors. She sets a sugar bowl on the table and the night stretches out before him like his first night with Barnes' men, where they all knew how it was going to go but no one said anything. Easier just to get to the point.

“Miss Carter—” Steve starts, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as she puts the kettle on.

“Agent,” she says brightly.

“Pardon?”

“Agent Carter, not Miss Carter, thank you Steven. One sugar or two? I'm afraid I haven't any milk.”

“I—no sugar, thank you, sorry, um, Agent Carter ma'am,” Steve says, flushing. “I just--I know why I'm here, you don't need to, you know, put on tea for me.”

“And if the tea isn't just for you? Do you have other engagements this evening?”

“I—” Steve shuts his mouth with a snap. She's an officer, and he's already embarrassed himself, and if she wants to have tea before she fucks him, then who's he to say no. “No, ma'am,” he says, and he can feel her looking him up and down as he blushes to the tips of his ears. “Sorry, ma'am.”

It was easier when no one wanted him to talk.

* * *

Except that talk is all she wants to do. She deals rummy, and asks about Brooklyn. He tells her about Arnie and euchre, and she deals round after round of rummy. Steve loses and she asks about his parents; he loses again and she asks about his job before the war. He starts to think he might win a round, but then she sweeps the table with two last minute runs and he loses again, and that's the night. She shows him to the curtained off cot, draws it closed, and turns out the light.

“Good night, Steven,” Agent Carter says from the other side of the curtain.

“Good night, ma'am,” Steve says, and wonders what he's doing there.

* * *

In the morning, Agent Carter makes tea and toast, and they walk back to barracks together, and no one says a word about it except for Barnes' unhappy frown and Dugan's overly-enthusiastic slap on the back. That night, Barnes fucks him longer than usual, sucking Steve off until he's close enough to cry and then making Steve ride him until he comes just from Barnes' cock in his ass, and Barnes doesn't say a word about it but Steve knows that's the point.

Because the next time they come back from the field, Agent Carter's put in the paperwork for another night of rummy and tea, and another, and another, until Barnes just waves Steve away every night they're back to camp or London and the guys whistle and catcall when Steve straightens his tie. Agent Carter pays him no mind when they run across each other in camp, not even to acknowledge him outside of SSR briefings, her attention perfunctory and businesslike when he hands over his blurry film and waterlogged field sketches.

Barnes doesn't like it, and Steve stumbles over himself even worse when he has to explain to Phillips and Agent Carter why he hadn't gotten a very clear look at something, Barnes frowning through it with arms crossed, Dugan and Morita and Dernier elbowing each other and laughing at Steve's stuttering. He can't decide if it's better or worse that she ignores him as much as she did before, or if there were anything for Dugan and Jones and Falsworth to wink and nudge each other about.

In private, Steve stumbles over himself even worse, and he wonders why she bothers. She asks about his art, and he tells her about the exhibition he'd had scheduled, before the Auxiliaries took him. He asks her about London before the war, and she changes the subject. She asks him about the WPA, and he sketches her a couple of the pieces he'd been working on. He asks her about her family, and she asks if he knows the rules for double solitaire.

It's somehow worse than when he got up his courage to ask girls dancing before the war, because at least then he knew what he was doing wrong. He was too short, or stepped on their feet, or couldn't find the beat to save his life. Agent Carter makes tea, and deals round after round of rummy, and at the end of one evening, she takes the pins out of her hair in front of him and asks him to unzip her dress.

“I've pulled a muscle,” she says apologetically, holding her hair over one shoulder and looking back at him. She's lit from one side by her single lamp, hair outlined in gold, and Steve suddenly can't move. “Do you mind?” she says when he just sits there.

Steve trips over himself to stand, and wills his hands steady when she turns to let him unzip her.

Up close, she smells like Army soap and violets, the bare shadow of something floral and warm edged out by the sharp antiseptic smell of institutional laundry. She's got freckles across her shoulders, gold brown on her fair skin.

“Would you unhook me as well?” she asks just as he's finished the zip, and he nearly jumps back thinking he's done something wrong before he actually hears what she said.

Her brassiere is a blush pink, near the same shade as her skin. To unhook it, he has to touch her skin and she's warm like he knew she would be, but she shivers when his cold-chapped hands brush her. He retreats to his cot behind the curtain as soon as he can, embarrassed again that he ever thought he might ask her dancing after the war.

His traitorous body doesn't think so, though, focused on that one tiny contact and the smell of her for hours after she turns out the light. He knows he shouldn't even think about her, but that only makes it worse. She's an officer, and it's a violation of her trust, and there's just the thin curtain between them. He shouldn't even be thinking of it, but she's beautiful and she smiled at him when he unhooked her brassiere.

Lying on his back is too much of a temptation, even with his hands under his pillow. Lying on his belly is torture. He lays awake for an eternity, freezing every time she turns in her sleep and sure she's going to see right through him come morning.

* * *

He works his courage up to it the next morning as she puts the kettle on. She hasn't seen through him yet, but she will, and Steve would rather save her the trouble.

“Ma'am, I—” Steve takes a deep breath. “There's got to be better rummy partners around here than me.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, bringing a small pot of marmalade to the table. “How are you at bridge?” Agent Carter asks.

“Not very good, ma'am. I'm not good at much, if it's just cards you're after.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, slicing bread for toast. “How long have we been playing rummy, Steven?” she asks.

“Six or eight weeks, ma'am. I don't think I'll get any better.”

“And in those eight weeks, have you told anyone we're playing rummy?”

Steve frowns, not sure he follows. “No ma'am.”

“Have you told them we're doing anything besides play rummy?” She sets tea cups in front of him, and he feels as though he's missed part of the conversation, because why does it matter whether anyone knows they play cards. Except that if they were doing anything besides play cards, he wouldn't say a thing, and he hasn't said a thing about doing nothing _but_ cards because of his own selfish embarrassment.

“No ma'am.”

Agent Carter looks him up and down, a long, measuring look. “Not even Barnes?”

That makes him blush, because if she's asking, he's been obvious. He lifts his chin, looking her in the eye even though he can feel his ears pinking. “No, ma'am.”

“Steven, how would you like to work for the SSR?”

If he were standing, he'd be rocked back on his heels. As it is, he sits up like he's been slapped. He knew Barnes didn't see eye to eye with Phillips and Carter, but he didn't think they would ask that of him, of all things. “I won't spy on Barnes and the men, ma'am.”

“I'm not asking you to,” Agent Carter says, serious and even. “I'm asking if the SSR can put your skills to use in covert fieldwork alongside the commandos.”

“I haven't got any skills, ma'am, not that kind. Not unless you want to give the German Army the clap.” It doesn't sound like a joke, she doesn't look like she's joking, but it has to be. Barnes and the guys would laugh themselves sick at the idea of _Stevie Rogers, secret agent_.

Agent Carter crosses her arms across her chest, leaning one hip on the table. She's dead serious, as absurd as the idea is, and she makes him hold her look when she speaks. “We'd send you into the field with supplies and information for our agents across German lines. Give you an idea of what we're looking for, train you how to evade detection. Though I'd wager you already know how to go unnoticed by the men around you,” she says, and Steve blushes deeper. “Could you do that, help the SSR dismantle Hydra?”

Steve looks down at the table, at the cards stacked up from last night, his little stack of points and hers much larger. She always won because she knew how to build on anything Steve gave her, always two steps ahead of him in looking at the deck. It's not a joke, and he signed on as an auxiliary because it was all he could do at the time to help the war effort. The war effort is something else now, something vast and frightening and changing faster than the SSR can keep up, and Steve has a chance to help make a difference.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says finally. “I can try. I'm not a good soldier, but I can try.”

Agent Carter smiles at him for the first time since the night they danced, really smiles at him. “We don't need a good soldier, we need a good man. And I think you're a good man, Steven.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, turns out this is going to be multiple chapters of Steve/Peggy, so no smut yet. (But soon!) Bucky is kind of an asshole to Peggy in this; Peggy is not particularly nice to Steve. Also some not entirely consented wank fantasizing.

**Steve**

He shouldn't even be thinking of her, except that he can't not, not after watching her put on lipstick that morning, not after zipping her dress up for her because she pulled a muscle punching him. He finally landed a punch on her the night before, after a couple weeks of her just critiquing his form punching a little speedbag and a couple weeks more of her knocking him on his ass teaching him to fight. He shouldn't be thinking of her, because he hurt her but she just laughed delightedly and kicked his legs out from under him, pinning him to the floor with one delicate heeled shoe, but he can't not think about her because she was flushed and panting and beautiful by the end of it. He's finally got ten minutes alone in the shower with none of the guys waiting to fuck him, and he should be thinking of literally anyone else.

But if he's quick and doesn't think about her specifically, just a woman with red lips and Agent Carter's breasts and the way she commands a room with a look, he can lie to himself that he doesn't mean anything disrespectful by it. He saw plenty of the progirls and what they got up to with soldiers, and if he can't exactly see himself with Agent Carter like that, it gives him something to think about besides the stretch of her blouse over her breasts and the way her skirt hikes up just a little when she leans a hip on the table.

Or at least, it works until his brain catches up to what's actually getting his cock hard and he can't think about the progirls disrespectfully either but his traitorous imagination is blank for anything else.

Steve leans a hand on the tiled wall, chewing his lips with his hand on his dick. What he should be thinking about is Barnes' hot mouth, because at least that's actually happened to him and Barnes would be unbearably smug if he thought Steve were jerking it to the thought of getting fucked by him. Which—maybe. Barnes knows him well enough by now to take him apart, knows how to get Steve off without hardly touching him.

Except even a fantasy of Barnes has all his dangerous sharp edges, and the reminder that Barnes himself could walk in to find Steve desperately trying to jerk off to the thought of anyone besides Agent Carter is enough to wilt him even further. Barnes would laugh, and ask if Steve was thinking if him, and then fuck Steve against the wall just for the smugness of making him come.

Steve gives up and flings himself selfishly in the fantasy of dancing with Carter that night at the pub, the smell of her warm and floral and soft after three weeks on the road with nothing but mud and Army soap and sweat. She'd been warm and solid and sure of herself, and maybe afterwards she would have taken him back to her little rented room. She would have sat back on the bed with her skirt riding up her thighs, lamplight catching on the top of her stockings, and maybe she would have laughed her delighted laugh and tugged him down to kneel between her legs. She might have let him bring her off with her thighs around his head, her ankles crossed over his back as he licked her out. She might have come with her fingers twisted in his hair and—

“Rogers, you in here?” Barnes calls, cold air rolling in with him.

Steve puts his back to the cold tile, caught between trying to not look like he was just jerking off and trying to hide behind his hands when Barnes sticks his head around the tile halfwall and knows immediately.

Barnes is dressed, he had a shower that morning, but he starts stripping double time with the biggest shit eating grin Steve's ever seen on him. “Don't stop on my account,” he says, kicking his shoes off and looking delighted as a kid at Christmas. Steve blushes to the roots of his hair, but even trying to cover himself he's not fooling anyone.

As soon as he's naked, Barnes crowds him against the cold wall to kiss, pulling Steve's face up so he has to practically stand on tiptoes. Barnes keeps one hand under Steve's jaw and strokes them both with his other, covering Steve with the broad bulk of him. He's hard and relentless and he rubs the tip of Steve's cock with the pad of his thumb, teasing when he pulls back to give Steve a wicked look.

His mouth is red and obscene when he leans in to nip Steve's lip and finally ask it. Steve hides his guilty face against Barnes' shoulder so he doesn't have to look at Barnes when he lies to him.

“So what were you thinking of?” Barnes says against Steve's bent head, quiet under the shower but smug, like he thinks he already knows the answer.

“What do you think?” Steve says, pushing his cock into Barnes' calloused hand, because that's easier than outright lying. Barnes huffs a laugh, jerking him roughly, hand on both their cocks together so Steve has to clutch at Barnes' broad shoulders to stay where Barnes wants him.

Barnes bites Steve's neck, sharp and hot, nipping little bites until he pulls Steve up to kiss again. It's like drowning, letting Barnes pull him under, trapped by the heavy weight of him under the water. Steve comes into Barnes' hand, brief and perfunctory for as long as it took him, and Barnes laughs against his mouth, pleased with himself getting Steve off so quickly.

He half expects Barnes to pick him up and fuck him, or push him down on his knees, but Barnes is in a kissing mood, his hands all over as Steve jerks him off to return the favor. He'll never kiss in front of the guys, but when it's just them it's all he wants to do, lazy as a Sunday morning or a little predatory like he is now. He comes when Steve grabs his muscled ass and pulls him close, humming contented against Steve's mouth.

Barnes is in a mood, necking even as the water starts to go cool, and Steve can't help like it. Once in a while he's relaxed, and boyish, and close to happy when they're fucking, and Steve can't help but wonder if that's what he was like before. The guys talk about Azzano, but they'll never tell Steve what that means, and it hurts his heart to see Barnes like someone Steve would never have had a chance with in Brooklyn.

Barnes finally rinses them both down and tugs them out of there, tossing Steve a towel with a self-satisfied look. Steve dresses double quick before any of the guys think to come looking for them, letting Barnes steal a quick kiss as he stoops for his clothes.

“Christ, Rogers, when'd this happen?” Barnes says, because Steve didn't get his shirt on fast enough. He reaches out to touch the bruising across Steve's back from Carter knocking him ass over teakettle the night beore.. Steve shrugs his shirt on, because Barnes is relentless when he thinks he's got to protect Steve, but Carter's no Rumlow and Steve can take care of himself anyway.

“I tripped coming off the truck on the way back, it's nothing,” Steve says. It'll hurt for a week or two, like a date with Carter always does, but he'll be healed up by the time he sees her again.

Barnes frowns at him as Steve finishes dressing, but doesn't say anything as they walk out to mess. He puts an arm over Steve's shoulders, and if it doesn't mean anything, it's nice anyway.

* * *

**Peggy**

It's about nine in the evening, and she should be getting ready for bed. She should be leaving the codebreaking to the girls at Bletchley, but Steven's been bringing them pieces of a puzzle for weeks and it nags at her, these little references to prisoner experiments and optimization and secrets kept from the Reich.

The only relief in the unrelenting press is Steven sometimes forgets to not doodle in his fieldbook, and she turns from pages of grim, unnameable weapons they have no match for, to a map ringed round the edges with sketches of Barnes' men as the Musketeers or Steven as a little dancing monkey. He's talented, and funny, and sweet, and the only thing between her and the unrelenting despair of how little they know about Hydra's plans. They have to mean something, the little bits and pieces Hydra is trying to keep from the rest of the Nazis, and the closer she gets, the stranger it seems.

It doesn't help that at times it feels like the edge of what Barnes and the rest have been keeping from them about Azzano, about all the things the SSR suspects but doesn't know happened to them.

There's a sharp rap at her door, insistent and impatient, and sure enough Barnes stands in her doorway. He looks bigger away from other soldiers, looming without even stepping into her rented room. He gives her a sour look, mouth twisted around something.

“Sergeant,” Peggy says, because she'll be damned before she lets Barnes or anyone like him intimidate her.

“He's not a borrowed mule,” Barnes spits with no preamble.

“I beg your pardon.” Because it's clear enough that this is about Steven, but exactly how that particular Americanism applies escapes her.

“He came back covered in bruises. I won't have it.”

“Did he ask you to come here?” Peggy says, because Steven clearly didn't. Barnes' sour frown is answer enough. “And I suppose you didn't tell him you were coming here either,” Peggy says slowly. “I haven't done a thing to him he didn't consent to, so it's really none of your concern.”

“He's an auxiliary, he'll _consent_ to anything,” Barnes snarls, and he's suddenly much closer, actively trying to intimidate her, not just looming. Peggy stands her ground, back tight with how badly she wants to punch him in the mouth. They might be an even match, between Barnes' muscle and Peggy's skill, but she doesn't care to find out how much of Azzano he carries with him or explain to Phillips why their commando team has mutinied.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Peggy says slowly. They're nose to nose, or close enough to kiss if Barnes didn't look ready to punch her. He's not as tall as he carries himself, of a height with her and not as intimidating even actively leaning into her space, because this close she can see the dark hollows under his eyes and the shadow of stubble of a man frayed near breaking. “It's none of your concern.”

“He's _mine_ ,” Barnes says, and that's the real heart of it, for all that he pretends that he's protecting Rogers.

“Then you need to learn how to share,” Peggy says, and Barnes rears back like she slapped him. This was certainly not in the plan when the Americans assigned Barnes and his men a catamite. It would be easier to simply tell Barnes off, but Rogers is useless to the SSR without cover for fieldwork and it's not as though she can promise Rogers won't be hurt again.

They look at each other for a long moment, and she wonders what Steven and the girls see in Barnes. Any charm he had before Azzano is long gone, worn away to ragged edges with nothing to blunt the sharp intensity of him. Or perhaps he hasn't bothered turning it on for her since the first time she turned him down.

“Have it your way, Miss Carter,” he says, and he's gone before she can correct him.

* * *

If the confrontation with Barnes buys an uneasy truce, it's only a short one. Barnes and his men are three weeks in the field before they rendezvous with Phillips and the SSR detachment in the French countryside, Barnes and Steven both avoiding her for different reasons.

Except that the problem, when it comes out, is Steven and not Barnes.

His usual is to haunt her footsteps, trying and failing to not look like he's mooning after her. If she found it endearing at first, the absence of it is suspicious, Steven subdued and avoiding her look in the debriefing, Barnes looking oddly smug. Something had shifted while they were in the field, and Peggy didn't like being the last to know.

She didn't have to corner him after; he lingered after Phillips, Barnes and the men left, Steven trying guiltily to not look at his shoes as she waited.

“You have something else, Steven?” she said when the tent emptied, leaving them alone with the faint sounds of camp filtered through canvas.

He shifted on his feet, lifted his jaw, and looked her in the eye finally. “I need to offer my resignation. Ma'am.”

Of all things, that was the last she expected. “I don't think the Army is taking resignations, Steven.” He flushes bright red, and perhaps it was cruel to call him a coward, but she fought Barnes for him and the SSR needs him.

“I meant. From the SSR. Ma'am,” he manages, stumbling over his words with embarrassment but pushing on anyway. “I told them.”

That gives her pause. “You told who, and what exactly did you tell them?” she says slowly.

Steven swallows and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. “Barnes and his men. They asked if—I told them I'd never—with a woman.” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself and blushing furiously. “So they know we're not.”

Peggy leans back in her chair. “You didn't tell them what we _are_ doing.”

“No, ma'am,” he says, looking her right in the eye, the look of a man trying to hold on what little dignity he has left.

“Steven, I rather think you've told them nothing,” Peggy says.

“You said to not tell them anything,” Steven says, determined to die on his sword.

“I did.” She looks him up and down, considering. “Your logbooks were signed by a number of women,” she says eventually. One's a lie or the other is, and even if Steven didn't break their cover it matters if there's an inconsistency.

His cheeks are a bright, splotchy red, as though he's been crying or would like to. “There's—other things women want at pro stations,” he says, and he's defiant now. Defiant, and heartbreaking. She's clearly hit a nerve, though she's not quite sure what.

“There you are, then,” she says, though she's not sure what _other things_ entail. She looks him up and down again, wondering what that means. He's pretty, and funny, and brave, and Peggy had no idea there were other things. “All we've been doing is 'other things.' Was there anything else?”

He shakes his head sharply, his hair mussed under his cap for the first time she's known him. “No, ma'am.” She dismisses him, and can't tell if the look he gives her is relief or regret.

* * *

**Steve**

Steve gets about an hour of reprieve before Phillips and the universe conspire to bury him further in embarrassing misery. He's just hiked across camp and found the guys when Barnes rolls in a half hour later, shaking a sheaf of papers at Dugan.

“Can you _believe_ this,” Barnes scoffs, tossing the orders on Dugan's cot. “Phillips wants us to take a _woman_ behind enemy lines.”

“Carter?” Dugan says, eyebrows raised as he rifles through the papers.

“She's not a woman, she's an SSR agent,” Steve says before he thinks better of it, and Barnes and the guys snort at that.

“You oughta know,” Dugan snorts, reaching over to muss Steve's hair.

“I _meant_ she'll be more use in the field than I am,” he says, trying to duck away, but Barnes and Monty catch him.

“I don't know about that,” Monty says.

“You're plenty useful,” Barnes laughs, tossing Steve up over his shoulder in a fireman carry like he weighs nothing.  Steve lands on Barnes' shoulder with a solid _oof_ , the air going out of him as he comes face to face upside down with Agent Carter.

“Is this part of the usual preparations?” Agent Carter says, appearing in the open doorflap. Barnes swings Steve down in a hurry, landing him none too gently so Steve has to clutch onto his sleeve or fall over in front of her.

“Sure is, ma'am,” Gabe says, smooth as silk.

“Traditional tossing of the auxiliary,” Monty says, and Dernier and Morita snicker behind their hands.

“To welcome the new guy,” Barnes says smoothly. Steve looks between them, he can tell already nothing about this is going to go well.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many chapters this is going to end up, because I still have no porn but I'm determined to get there D:

**Steve**

They're due to roll out the next morning, but Steve half hopes he'll get run over by a supply truck in the mean time. Carter's slated to travel with them for a week or two, as long as it takes them to get her to a rendezvous with her Resistance contacts. It shouldn't be as agonizing as it will be.

Because once he's repacked the guys' gear and gotten a new tin of vaseline for his pack, there's nothing for him to do but sharpen his pencils and listen to Dugan and Barnes complain about Carter.

“It's not like she's the new guy,” Dugan says, lifting up his cap to scratch his head. “But ladies first, I guess?”

“She can do watch same as everybody else,” Barnes says. He says it pleasant enough, but Dugan snorts a laugh, because Barnes means _she_ _can pull middle of the night watch like everyone else_. Meaning, she won't be out patrolling when all the guys want a go at Steve. Meaning, she'll be able to hear and maybe even see all the guys fuck him.

Steve sits and chews his lip raw. It's not as though she doesn't already know, and it's not as though he was embarrassed about it before. He just—doesn't want her to see him get fucked by six men a night for a week, is all, even if they all know perfectly well that's his only reason for being there. It's prideful, and ridiculous, and he can't help it, especially now that everyone including Agent Carter knows he's never been with a woman in any way that matters.

Barnes and the guys would laugh themselves sick if Steve tried to get out of doing his job to spare his pride; he doesn't think they'd be vindictive about it, but it's not as though there's anything he could do about it if they were. He just—wants the illusion that maybe, after the war is all over, he could go back to the same kind of normal as the rest of the guys; finish art school, get married to a smart gal with red lipstick, have a beer with Barnes once in a while. That's all.

“Rogers, you awake over there?” Barnes calls. He says it like it's not the first time, and him and Dugan are watching Steve expectantly. Barnes leans back in his chair with his legs spread, and Steve knows well enough what that means.

Steve puts a smile on because that's his job, and goes over to let Barnes and Dugan twist fingers in his hair.

* * *

**Peggy**

The truck rumbles over every rut and stone in the road, the suspension completely shot. Peggy's back and rear ache by about two hours in, not that she'll ever let it show in front of Barnes, who sits and glares at her without even trying to hide it. The men, all their gear, and Steven were crammed into the back of a cargo truck just before dawn that morning, and of course Barnes is the only one with energy left to care that Peggy's there. He sits across from her and his unwavering attention would be unnerving if she weren't so annoyed.

Steven dozes fitfully next to Barnes, trying to pretend his full attention isn't torn between her and Barnes. He's terrible at hiding things, which is really the only reason he works as well as he does for the SSR's interest: he's so obviously bad at lying that no one would think to ask him to. Brave and loyal and clever, yes; subtle, no.

Steven sits with his arms crossed over his chest, practically vibrating with the tension where he's wedged between Barnes and wall of the truck. But he can't keep it up forever, and Barnes gives Peggy a dirty look every time Steven nods off and startles awake.

It's a long ride, as far as their painted truck will take them before they have to start hiking to the rendezvous. Dugan, Dernier, Jones and the rest snore leaning against each other, but Barnes is still glaring at her when Steven finally drops off to a true sleep. Steven starts to nod, as though he's about to startle awake again, when Barnes, keeping eye contact with her, puts an arm over Steven's shoulders like it's a challenge and pulls him close.

It's going to be a long week.

* * *

The truck stops for exactly a minute and a half near midnight to deposit them at a crossroads, and then it and the driver are gone, on schedule through the rest of the Reich. Barnes pushes them hard through the rest of the night-near-morning, and gives her a long look when they make cold camp at first real light.

Steven avoids her, whether out of nerves or his own prickly pride she's not quite certain, avoiding her as they bed down and when Barnes rouses them for their first full day's march after true dawn. Steven is skittish as a spooked horse, shying from Barnes and the others so much even they notice. Barnes shakes him by the shoulder once, frowning, but says nothing of it. But Barnes makes certain to glare back at her, to be sure she knows it's her doing.

So of course she hasn't the faintest clue what it's about until they make first real camp, sheltered against the wall of an abandoned barn foundation as the men put up halfwall tents and Peggy does her best to not seem as tired as she feels. Steven worries his lip raw until it's near time to bed down for the night, and then she finally understands.

“Well,” Dugan says when the last of them have finished eating, and Steven freezes like a rabbit. “Ladies first.”

Because that's what had Steven so spooked all evening; she hadn't given a thought to the performance of this, that they all have a turn at the proboy behind the bare privacy of canvas and that they expect her to as well.

Poor Steven looks like he'd rather die than contemplate sex with a woman.

She could say she's too tired, but then it puts the problem off for another night. And this is clearly part of the ritual of their missions; Barnes gives her an even, skeptical look, as though this is some sort of test of her abilities, and the rest of the men watch her expectantly. If she makes excuses, she runs the risk of losing what is very clearly a pissing contest with Barnes.

Peggy gives them all an even smile, and stands up. Steven stumbles to his feet after her and she lets him lead her off to a tent set further from the others, Steven blushing furiously the whole way.

The tent would be cozy, if Steven's nerves weren't palpable in the air. She can see him take a steadying breath as the flap closes behind her.

"What would you like, ma'am?" Steven asks. He keeps his chin up and looks her in the eye, and her heart breaks a little that he thinks she would take advantage like this.

"Rummy or double solitaire, your call," she says, pulling her battered pack of cards from her pocket. She'd rather thought to teach Barnes a lesson at poker, but this will do as well. Steven schools the surprise on his face, and deals their first round of rummy.

The sound of their breathing is loud in the little tent. Steven nearly wins the first round but he's got no head for counting cards, only seeing the ones in front of him. He loses the second round badly and the third even worse, attention clearly not on the game. The others are close enough to hear but not close enough to make out individually. She suspects they pitched Steven's tent farther away than usual, but she doesn't know for certain.

The nerves aren't all Steven's; Peggy's hands shake when she takes her deal. It's ridiculous, really. She's stabbed enemy agents and taken a bullet more than once, and here she is fretting like a schoolgirl at the thought of pretending to roll in the hay with pretty, brave Auxiliary Rogers.

He watches her through his lashes, and she can see him catch the tremor in her hand before she pushes it away. His cheeks are pink even in the dim twilight through canvas.

“I've never either, you know,” Peggy blurts. “With a man. Nor a girl, either,” she says, when he just looks at her with big eyes.

* * *

**Steve**

He's sure he hasn't heard her right, staring at her. “But you're gorgeous,” Steve says, and then his face burns as his ears catch up to his mouth.

They look at each other. “I thought you were a homosexual,” Agent Carter says first.

“No ma'am,” Steve says, and he feels as though he's been lying to her this whole time. She'd never have asked him to unzip her dress or unhook her brassiere if she'd known, never mind that he thought about her in the shower before Barnes caught him at it. His face goes even hotter when she raises an eyebrow with the obvious question. “I don't—mind it.”

There's a long pause where she just looks at him, and he waits for—he's not sure what. Her anger, or disgust, or pity, maybe, but then she—laughs. She laughs delightedly, covering at the last second with her hand. Her red nails are bright even in the dark and she's as beautiful in her field drab with her hair pinned up as she was in the pub with her red dress.

“So that Wonder Woman drawing,” she asks, and then doesn't make him say it. “Lorraine thought you fancied me, but I told her she was being ridiculous.” She says it behind her hand, smiling at him, like she's found a secret joke between them.

Steve ducks his head, embarrassed. He'd torn it out of his sketchbook when Barnes got sore over it, and forgot that he'd hidden it in his fieldbook.

He shrugs, because he thought he'd been too obvious. She's not looking at him like the girls he asked to dance, but he doesn't know how she's looking at him now, amused and he's not sure what else. Not quite the way she looked at him in the pub, but then, he'd been wrong about what she wanted then, too.

“A gal as smart and pretty as you can dance with anybody she wants to, ma'am,” Steve says to his cards. She'll win this time, because she wins every time, but she wins because she knows how to build on his cards, because she can see two steps ahead of him. She'd be a killer partner in euchre, and he thinks she might be blushing when she folds her cards.

She puts them down on the blanket, watching him intently. “I've been—waiting for the right partner,” she says, and looks right at him as she says it. She's very close, and very beautiful, leaning towards him in the dark.

“Wrap it up, Rogers,” Barnes calls through the canvas just then, like he does when the guys take too long. Agent Carter startles back, glaring in Barnes' direction.

She shakes herself, scooping up the cards where they've both forgotten them, the moment clearly gone. She purses her lips, looking him up and down with that measuring look she gives him when he hands over his field books. “May I?” she asks.

Steve blinks. “Yes ma'am,” he says, even though he doesn't know what she means.

She leans across the blanket and kisses him on the cheek, a brief flash of warmth and then she's gone, with her lipstick still on Steve's cheek.

* * *

**Peggy**

Barnes smokes his acrid Lucky Strikes and watches her as Dugan takes Peggy's place. She tries not to listen to Steven's next game of rummy as she walks off her own nerves. It's hard not to hear, though, the rustle of clothing, soft voices too quiet to make out, and Barnes looks her up and down as she lights her own cigarette.

"Long day," Barnes says after a long minute of watching her smoke and carefully not listening to the muffled sounds of Steven being fucked.

Steven is pretty, and funny, and brave, and he fancies her. She returns Barnes' measuring look, and wonders if this is the heart of his possessiveness, if she might understand him more than she would like. “Indeed it has been, sergeant.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Peggy**

They lose one full day to rain and mud, and then another, ankle deep in it as they try to navigate the countryside via ravines and muddy stream banks. Barnes calls a full halt when the rain hasn't let up the third day, sending Peggy, Monty and Jones ahead to scout an abandoned farm while the rest huddle down.

Peggy can hear Steven coughing forty paces off as she and the men fan out to scout the farm, and if she didn't know their location already, his poorly muffled hacking cough would be a dead giveaway as she makes her way back. It's the kind of cough that could just be in his throat and he'll cough his voice away before nightfall, or it could turn rattling and wet before morning. They're still a week out from making contact, more if the rain keeps up. More yet if Steven's cough worsens.

They get under cover in short order, the house a loss to fire but the hay in the barn is mostly dry, if a bit musty and going to seed in places where the rain has gotten in. Barnes deposits Steven in the least damp corner straightaway, and the men tack up blankets around him. Peggy doesn't fully understand why until Dugan gives her a significant look as he takes off his dripping coat, and then she beats a hasty retreat into the little nest where Barnes has ensconced Steven as the men begin stripping to skivvies.

Barnes glares at her, but she gestures at the tableau behind her, and even he can't argue with Monty stripped to his Union Jacks. Steven gives her a miserable look, and he's gray around the gills, the beginnings of a fever. Barnes is down to his undershirt, which would be more scandalous if not for how clearly he does not want her there. He's already chewing a piece of hay in lieu of smoking, as though Peggy weren't already aware this was going to be a long night.

He's stripped Steven out of his wet clothes already and wrapped him in what looks like several of Barnes's and the men's spare shirts, making him look nothing so much like a half drowned kitten the neighborhood boys have rescued without the faintest clue what to do with it. Steven coughs softly into his hands, and Barnes resumes shaking something at him as Peggy settles in their little nest of hay.

“Take it,” Barnes says. He waggles the cough syrup at Steven like a nursemaid.

“'M fine,” Steven mumbles, even though he patently is not. He shakes with a suppressed cough, arms wrapped around his chest.

“Take it before the milice hear your coughing,” Barnes snaps, and Steven blanches.

Steven gives her a woeful glance, as though she's discovered some severe moral failing in him, and she directs her attention to stripping out of her own wet gear as delicately as possible in front of Barnes. There's only so much damp wool she can strip off with him sitting right there, and she feels Barnes and Steven both watching her attentively without actually looking her as she lays out her damp stockings and Steven knocks back a draught of the cough syrup with the air of long practice.

Peggy's trousers are soaked up to the knee as well, and Barnes rolls his eyes at her when she stands and motions for him to turn his back. Barnes does turn his back, though she can feel his attention as she changes into dry clothes, Steven burying his face in his hands and blushing to beat the band. The men are hard to make out individually past the rain, the murmur of their voices low under the rain as they lay out their own wet clothes on the hay.

Steven is endearingly honest, especially in contrast to Barnes' insincere indifference, as though she cares whether either of them see her mostly-dry thermals, as though she'd strip down any further to change in front of the two of them. She pulls on her dry trousers and sweater, brushing Steven's hair out of his face when he glances at her through his lashes.

Barnes gives her a disdainful look when she clears her throat for him to turn around, making it clear that she's trespassed in his nursemaid's duties.

“Sarge?” Dugan says through the blanket, sparing Peggy the full force of Barnes' annoyance. Barnes twitches the blanket aside, heedless of anyone's delicate sensibilities, because there's Dugan in nothing but his trousers, suspenders and cap looking just as surprised as Peggy.

“Pardon, Miss Carter,” Dugan says, recovering smoothly. “Sarge, Fresno and Frenchy said they saw a truck up the road that could use liberating, you want they should investigate tonight or in the morning?”

Barnes looks between Steven huddled in his nest and Jones, Falsworth and Dugan looking under the weather themselves after three full days of rain. Morita and Dernier are still dressed, though stripped of their heavy packs. A truck could put them back on schedule without the risk of pneumonia all around, but would add to their risk of being discovered.

“Tonight,” Barnes snaps. “But don't bring it back until dawn, and we leave at full light whether you're back or not, got me?”

“Capiche, sarge,” Morita says, he and Dernier already moving out. Jones and Falsworth are asleep at the drop of a hat on Barnes' word, Dugan tugging the pinned-up blankets down to hand Peggy one and Steven the other, before going to pull on a shirt and sit watch. Peggy has to at least admire their efficiency if not their manners.

“Well,” Peggy says as Dernier and Morita melt away into the fog of rain. “Cards?”

“Rummy? Or three-hand euchre?” Steven says hopefully, perking up a bit from his nest.

“My grandmother plays rummy,” Barnes says sourly, and if he notices Steven deflate a little, he doesn't show it.

“Do you have a better suggestion, sergeant?” Peggy says, because Barnes didn't even dignify the suggestion of euchre with a response but Peggy's not about to admit she doesn't know it.

Barnes purses his lips around his piece of hay. “Rogers is shit at poker,” he says finally. Peggy wonders if he's normally this terrible, or if this is a special performance for her benefit. “You play cribbage, Miss Carter?” Barnes says, and Peggy would have a smart nest egg if she had a pence for every time he didn't call her Agent.

* * *

“You count cards,” Peggy says when she wins, a bare handful of points ahead of Barnes and miles ahead of Steven. Steven lists in his little hay nest, mostly gone on the cough syrup since the second hand.

“So d'you, Miss Carter,” Barnes says evenly.

“It's rather ungentlemanly,” Peggy says. She tidies the cards away, annoyed that she's annoyed.

“It's rather unladylike, too.” Barnes doesn't even bother to sound bothered, just watches her tuck the cards away. Steven watches them owlishly, barely keeping his head up.

“I never said I was a lady,” Peggy sniffs, because Barnes has her there.

“Never said I was a gentleman,” Barnes says, perhaps with the edge of a smile. This might be the edge of his old charm, or something like it, just a bit of self-deprecating needling that could be interesting if he weren't so damnably infuriating in every other way. Barnes isn't a bad looking man when he smiles, though Peggy wonders if anything about his smile isn't calculated, or if he was freer about it before Azzano.

Steven coughs fitfully, trying to smother it in his hands so that he shakes miserably. Barnes frowns at him, Steven's shoulders hunching.

“Hey. C'mere,” Barnes says to him, brusque. Steven shies away from him at first, but he hasn't got the energy left to escape once Barnes lays hands on him, muzzy on the cough syrup and a fever.

Barnes shoots her a warning glance as he pulls off his belt, tossing it off to one side as he pulls Steven towards him. Peggy's not sure what she expected, but Barnes tugging Steven down to pillow his head in Barnes' lap wasn't it. She watches them with raised eyebrows, but keeps her opinions to herself.

Barnes smooths a broad hand over Steven's hair, and maybe this is why Steven dotes on him despite everything. Because Barnes is clearly affectionate, tucking Steven's skinny frame against his side, so that Steven is curled against him with one of Barnes' arms draped over his side, curled up in their warm little nest and Peggy the voyeur. Barnes' sourness makes a little more sense, prickly about showing her he's fallen for a proboy. As though it were any kind of secret.

Steven sighs, settling. “C'n I suck you off, sarge?” he says, nuzzling into Barnes' crotch. Peggy hadn't anticipated that the trip would be quite so—educational, as it were.

Barnes huffs a laugh. “Miss Carter's right here, Stevie, ladies don't need that kind of show,” Barnes says, and doesn't even give her a sour look. He sounds half-fond, smoothing Steven's hair back from his forehead.

“She don't mind,” Steven says sleepily. Barnes looks up at her sharply, but Peggy just shrugs.

“You're sick,” Barnes says. “I don't want snot on my dick.”

Steven takes a little breath at that, turning his face down into Barnes' lap. “Oh,” he says quietly, and she can't read his tone without seeing his face. He's quiet for a moment, gone tense under Barnes' hands even as Barnes pets him, combing fingers through his hair. “C'n I stay here anyway?” Steven asks, almost too quiet to hear.

“What? 'Course you can, Stevie,” Barnes says, scowling down at him.

“Sorry,” Steven says, his breath catching.

“For what?” Barnes says, and he's a little gentler this time.

“F'r being useless,” Steven says. His voice sounds messy and wet, muffled by Barnes' clothes. Barnes frowns down at him, clearly torn over what he's willing to do or say in front of Peggy

“You're fine,” Barnes says, back to brusque whiplash fast. He scowls in Peggy's direction without actually looking at her, a different kind of protective now. “Go to sleep, you won't be useless in the morning.”

Steven's breath hitches a little at that, but he obediently curls tighter against Barnes' side. His breathing evens out after a minute, the tension in his back easing a little as Barnes goes back to petting him.

“'S the cold medicine does this,” Barnes says after a while. “He's fine in the field, never complains.”

“I know,” Peggy says.

“He can take care of himself,” Barnes says. “He's a good aim with a Luger at twenty paces.”

“I'm sure,” Peggy repeats. “His left hook is quite good, though his right could use some work. Who taught him to shoot?” she asks, though she knew the answer full well as soon as Barnes mentioned it. Barnes will never serve the SSR's interests cleanly, but his investment in Steven may be useful if she can figure out how to cultivate his protectiveness.

“I did,” Barnes says, and she can hear pride, and anger, and a challenge in his voice. “Who taught him to fight?” he asks, though he has to know full well. His hands tighten on Steven's shoulder possessively.

“I did,” Peggy says. Barnes makes a face, somewhere between surprised and offended. “Where did you think all the bruises were from, sergeant?”

“Rumlow put bruises all over him for weeks,” Barnes says, and it's so matter-of-fact Peggy's stomach drops out as she takes in the implications, suddenly queasy with her own naivete.

She knew Rumlow's file back to front, first when she passed it on to Phillips on their short list of candidates to add to the Howling Commandoes, and then when she went through everything they'd gathered on him to figure out how Hydra had infiltrated them so easily. But she hadn't thought through the implications of what a man like that would do to someone like Steven.

“Bite marks and big ugly hand prints on his throat.” Barnes says, when Peggy says nothing. “At the pro station he had a couple of regulars who liked to give him a split lip before, y'know,” Barnes says with a wave of his hand, as though he's embarrassed to say it.

Except that a man actually embarrassed over saying the thing would look more taken aback by it; Barnes doesn't, because he isn't. He says it matter-of-factly because he intends to shock her, to underline that she shouldn't be here, in the field or in their cozy little nest.

“What's your point, sergeant?” Peggy says.

“All sorts of things happen to auxiliaries, Miss Carter,” Barnes says. He shrugs, closing the conversation. “That's what you're sharing.”

* * *

Peggy wakes up to the sound of Barnes' unhappy mumble, soft under the drumming rain and the quiet sounds of the men sleeping. Jones is on watch, and more's the pity, Dugan snoring away since they switched a few hours ago.

“'M fine, just need to take a piss,” Steven says, and it's so unlike his usual polite deference Peggy nearly doesn't recognize his voice. He at least sounds like his coughs' broken, if not the fever as well.

Peggy's nearly back to sleep when Steven picks his way through the dark barn and back, but Barnes has woken up enough to be audible and Peggy still hasn't quite gotten the knack of tuning them all out.

“How you feeling?” Barnes mumbles, turning over. Peggy can just make them out in the dark, Barnes holding his arm up for Steven to tuck under. They settle so that all Peggy can see is the dark shape of Barnes, Steven tucked neatly against him in the dark.

“Fine, jus' hungover from the cough syrup,” Steven says, and Barnes huffs a laugh. “I say anything stupid this time?”

“Just your usual smooth-talking charm,” Barnes murmurs, smoothing a hand over Steven's hair or shoulder.

“Who'd I try to blow this time?” Steven says, sounding half amused. It's shocking, how easily he says it, and Peggy should know better than to be shocked, and yet here she is.

“Jus' me,” Barnes says. His voice is warm and dark, like they really are lovers.

What ever Steven might have said in response is cut off by Barnes shifting them both, the sound quiet under the drumming rain but loud when Peggy realizes what Barnes is doing: he lays Steven on his back, hooking knees over Barnes' shoulders, and, well. Peggy closes her eyes and resolutely does not breath or move, because if Steven was mortified by her presence before, he would die of embarrassment knowing she was awake for this.

Steven makes a small sound, something contented and soft, muffled behind his hands, and Barnes makes no sounds at all besides the necessary. Peggy's bedroll is suddenly much too warm despite the rain, and even with her eyes closed she can see quite clearly Barnes sucking off Steven, slow and precise in that as in all things. No wonder Barnes is so prickly about his affection.

If she knew that, generally speaking, Tab A fit into Slot B, she'd never given any thought to whether Tab B might also fit Slot A. Or any other permutation of tabs and slots, for that matter. The whole trip has been rather intriguingly educational.

Steven makes a tiny, strangled sound just as Barnes sits up, and Peggy badly both does and doesn't want to look, because from the sound of it, Barnes tugs Steven into his lap hastily, and this is the part she knew about but couldn't quite fathom. Steven's breath is fast under the rain but he doesn't cough, and a spark of vulgar understanding flashes through her at the sound of Barnes moving.

Peggy may not yet have as full an understanding of the range of Steven's talents as she'd like, but her imagination and a precisely applied index finger make quick work with the aid of Steven's breathy sounds half-muffled against Barnes' shoulder. They'd contrast beautifully, Barnes' broad hands on Steven's narrow thighs, and if Peggy has a tiny bit of voyeuristic guilt, it perhaps only speeds things along.

She comes just before Steven or Barnes, not trusting herself to even breath very deeply until they've both settled and been still for what feels like hours. Steven makes a small, contented noise in his sleep, and Peggy knows this is the heart of Barnes' possesiveness, more jealous than she would like to admit even to the rainy dark.

* * *

Monty spots the truck rattling down the road at first blush of dawn, rousting the rest of them out of bed doublequick. Peggy rolls to her feet a sight quicker than Barnes, who is apparently still human and not an early bird at that. Steven sets to packing up bedrolls with a grim-faced determination that belies the pallor suggesting his fever hasn't quite broken yet.

“Sleep well, Miss Carter?” Barnes says as the truck rolls up, and Peggy knows then, without a shadow of a doubt, that he knows she was awake during the night. How, she can't speculate, but that's the problem with Barnes; he's just a bit preternatural for easy explanation, and the unnaturalness of him prickles along the back of her neck.

“Sound as a top, sergeant,” Peggy says. What else he knows is impossible to tell from his face, but there's no use being embarrassed over it now, especially if that's Barnes' intention.

“Ça va?” Dernier says, hopping out of the truck.

“Ça roule,” Barnes says, starting to sling packs into the back. Peggy gives him a measuring look as she helps pack the truck.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever! but at least it's almost 5k long of just porn, finally :p this is the first time in almost fifteen years and 600k words of fanfic that I've written m/f porn, so please forgive. I've got at least two more chapters of Steve/Peggy/Bucky left, I think, and then I'll probably switch over to something else for a bit <3

**Steve**  
  
He can feel Barnes watching him. Steve combs his hair and straightens his tie, trying not to think about how hard his heart is hammering in his throat. Between Carter waiting for him and Barnes watching him, he feels like a bug on a card, holding his breath for Barnes to say something.

They've been back in London for two days with no word of Carter since they saw her to her rendezvous, and Barnes and the guys fucked Steve raw the couple of days following, like they'd been waiting to get rid of her. But now she's back, and she sent Barnes the paperwork for Steve's time as soon as she was out of briefing with Phillips. And Barnes is watching him like he's going to say something about it.

Steve takes a steadying breath as he turns to leave, but Barnes unfolds from his cot before Steve's taken two steps towards the door. There's no getting around Barnes, and Barnes puts on his fake charm as he ducks to kiss Steve's neck and walk him back against the desk.  
  
“I need to go,” Steve says, trying to shrug out from under Barnes' hands on his belt, mussing his hair.  
  
“Come on, we'll make it quick,” Barnes says.  
  
“Agent Carter's waiting for me,” Steve says, but Barnes already has Steve's belt unbuckled, so there's no use arguing after that.  
  
“So?" Barnes says. His stubble rubs Steve's neck raw, and he uses his weight to turn Steve around so he's pinned against the desk.  
  
"I'm gonna be late," Steve says, and tries to push out from under him, boxed in by Barnes’ broad arms.  
  
"She can wait,” Barnes says. He tugs Steve's trousers down in one motion, keeping him pinned up against the table while Barnes fumbles the Vaseline out of his pocket.  
  
Barnes had clearly planned this, and Steve has to fight to keep the hot flash of resentment down because Barnes knows, knows better than anyone, when Steve's standing date with Carter is. Even if it's not really a date, even if there's no actual possibility of Carter fucking him, Barnes doesn't know that and he’s timed it so that Steve has no time to clean up after getting fucked, has to walk over there leaking Barnes' come and still slicked up. The point of this is to be humiliating and show Steve and Carter both that Barnes can fuck him whenever he wants, as if Steve didn't already know that.

It’s not fair, and Barnes knows it, and that’s why he does it. "You don’t get to fuck me to punish me," Steve says before he thinks better of it, and he twists out of Barnes' hands.  
  
There's a dangerous moment where Barnes twists a hand in his shirt and shoves him back across the desk, fist hard in the center of Steve’s chest; Steve's never sure how much of his reaction is reflex or anger or both, or when Steve’s finally going to end up on the wrong side of Barnes’ dangerous reflexes.  
  
But Barnes doesn't do anything more than keep him pinned in place, Steve sprawled half across the desk with his pants down and Barnes between his legs. "I never said that," Barnes says finally, his voice flat and all the pretense at charm gone.  
  
"Just hit me if you're sore about Carter," Steve says, because he's not stupid. Or maybe because he is.

Barnes jerks back like he’s been scalded, a disgusted look on his face. “Get out of here,” he says, turning his back to Steve. “You’re gonna be late.”  
  
Steve straightens his tie, and doesn't bother hiding his hot face or his mouth pressed thin. Barnes doesn’t say a word more and neither does Steve, and Steve walks out feeling the weight of Barnes’ frown on his back.

* * *

When she answers the door, Agent Carter’s done up so nice Steve starts to apologize and leave, thinking he got the day wrong. She’s dressed to step out in the red dress from the night at the pub, and Steve flushes guiltily for all the times he’s fantasized about seeing her in it again.

“ _Steven_ ,” Carter says when he apologizes, in the voice she uses to give orders, and it sends a jolt through him from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. “You’re not interrupting anything.” She turns back into the room without waiting to see if Steve will follow, and Steve only notices then the stiff way she moves and the bandaged scrapes down one of her arms.

Steve takes his usual spot at her little kitchen table, trying to ignore the way the lights are dimmed, like she’s waiting for someone. He’s got no grounds to be jealous, but Steve can’t stand the thought of playing cards while she waits for a date.

Instead of the tea kettle, though, Carter takes down a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and actual wine glasses, delicate and etched with flowers. The bottle says _Grand Vin de Bourgogne 1939_ , and it’s a deep, purply red when she pours a glass and sets it in front of him.

“To going unnoticed,” Carter says when she raises her glass to his. Steve knows better by now than to ask her how her mission went, but sitting this close he can’t help notice the bandages taped over her elbow and the side of her thigh, where the lamplight catches the tops of her stockings and he ends up blushing at the tablecloth instead.

The wine tastes like her dress looks, smooth and warm with none of the sharpness of Barnes’ whiskey. Carter watches him before she takes a sip of her own, and Steve blushes more from her look than the alcohol.

Steve remembers his manners then, taking her deck of cards from their usual spot next to the sugar bowl and starting to shuffle nervously. “Rummy or double solitaire, ma’am?”

“I thought we might do something besides play cards tonight, if you don’t mind,” Carter says, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass.

“Whatever you like, ma'am,” Steve says, putting the cards back.  
  
“I thought,” Agent Carter says, and Steve realizes for the first time that she's blushing. It's like if Barnes were to blush, so near impossible Steve can hardly believe that's what he's seeing, “that we might get to know one another better,” Carter says.  
  
“Oh,” Steve says, and then, “Oh,” again, because his brain hasn't quite caught up to what she said.

“I thought you might know where one might start,” she says, and Steve’s brain stutters to nearly a complete stop. She watches him over their wine glasses bold as brass, and God, she’s beautiful.

Not like none of the USO girls or WAAC officers hadn't come to him for their first, but the couple who had all had pretty firm ideas in mind how they wanted it to go. Leading in this, especially with a gal like Agent Carter, is about as foreign as the idea of leading her dancing. Sure that's how it's supposed to go for a guy like Barnes, but Steve isn't that guy. Carter could break him in half if she wanted to, could probably break Barnes in half and leave him weeping. The thought is terrifying.

“I don’t—know what you’d like,” Steve says, at a loss for where to even start. His mouth is dry from the wine, or maybe just how intent she’s looking at him. He’d be useless to actually do his job for her. “Ma’am.”

“Steven,” Agent Carter says. “If all I wanted were a fellow to tell me what I liked, I'd have taken Barnes up on his offer a long time ago. I’d like an idea of the options, as it were.”  
  
“Oh,” Steve says again, and feels his cheeks go hot, because he hadn't given a passing thought to the two of them together. Then his brain catches up to what she's said again and he thinks maybe his heart will stop, because Barnes doesn't seem the type to get jealous, but it's a different sort of thing for a guy like Steve to step out with another man's girl. Barnes's especially.

No wonder he’s been so sore at Steve.

“Steven,” Agent Carter says, like she can read his mind, or at least his face. “Barnes and I have never, nor will we ever, not even in his wildest fantasies. Now, how does this usually go?” Carter says, straight to the point.

Steve blinks at her twice. He’s out of practice after so long with the guys, who barely bother with pleasantries anymore. “Usually the, ah, the lady has a, um, goal in mind, ma’am,” Steve says. He finishes his wine in one go without meaning to. “But that’s when they’ve only got fifteen minutes.” Sometimes a half hour if it was a slow night or the desk officer was feeling generous.

Carter laughs at that, surprised and unladylike. Steve loves it. “We’ve considerably more than fifteen minutes,” she says, and gives him a long look as she finishes her own wine. “Why don’t we start where we left off?” she says, and he’s got hardly time to know what she’s talking about before she closes the distance between them.

She kisses like Barnes at first, hot and overwhelming, but the resemblance ends after the first second when she hesitates just long enough for Steve to take a breath, taste her waxy sweet lipstick, and kiss her back.

Their teeth click and she laughs against his mouth, bringing a hand to comb through his hair and hold him in place. She kisses like she’s making notes for later, trying different angles until she nips his lip. She laughs her delighted laugh at the shudder that goes through him and he tries to chase her soft mouth. She bites his lip again, too hard, but kisses him deep to make up for it.

* * *

**Peggy**

Kissing is not nearly as exciting as Peggy’s novels had led her to believe, but Steven is endearingly enthusiastic about it even if the act itself isn’t as interesting as she’d hoped it might be. He puts a warm, tentative hand on her knee, forward enough to do it but not forward enough to push the hem of her dress up and his fingers tighten when she traces fingers down the line of his throat.

She wraps a hand in his tie to pull him standing and he stumbles into her, hands briefly on her waist. He just barely reaches her shoulder and his breath catches as she pulls him back to the bed with her, his breath warm on her collar bone as he leans into her. He folds to his knees just as she sits on the bed, and she has a moment to wonder why before he rather boldly turns his head to kiss the inside of her knee while she holds his tie.

He has beautiful hands, too big for his knobby wrists but he’s got long, perfect fingers as he rests one hand on her ankle and puts his other on her knee, watching her closely. Peggy bites her lip and runs fingers through his hair just to watch him shudder. He kisses her knee again with closed eyes, the tip of his nose brushing her stockings.

Steven kisses up her knee, fingers getting bolder as he plays with the hem of her dress, sending sparks tracing up the backs of her legs. She toes off her heels, letting go of his tie to lean back on her hands and watch him. He glances up at her through his lashes at that, and noses her skirt and slip up over the tops of her stockings.

His mouth feels just as hot and obscene as it looks, and she jumps when he nips the inside of her thigh, just above the lace top of her stockings.

“That okay, ma’am?” Steven asks, hands gone still.

She cards hands through his pretty blond hair. “Very,” she says, and it comes out less breathless than she feels.

He breathes a smile against her thigh, warm and damp where his cheek brushes the tops of her stockings and his beautiful hands stray a bit higher, bolder now.

His fingers are just as talented as they are pretty, ghosting over the front of her panties as he alternates warm, open mouthed kisses and little nips up the inside of her thigh. She can feel her pulse race under his hands, one hand curled under her thigh.

“You’re a tease,” Peggy breathes, tugging his hair.

Steven manages to look contrite and sly all at once. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says, and Peggy almost believes him. “You said we had more than fifteen minutes.”

Peggy laughs breathlessly, giddy on the easy way he melts into her hands when she pulls his hair again.

“Can I?” he says, beautiful long fingers hooked into the straps of her garter belt, biting his lip coyly. Such a pretty tease.

“You may,” Peggy says archly, stomach more aflutter than the first time she shot a gun.

He kisses her thighs just above the lace tops of her stockings as he undoes each catch. The tip of his nose and his lips are burning hot when the last one comes undone, Steven glancing up at her through his lashes. He hooks fingers into the waist of her panties and licks his lips, waiting for her permission.

Peggy lifts her hips and he slides them off her reverently, smoothing hands down her thighs as he pushes them down. Then he breaks the moment by nipping her thigh; Peggy screeches a breathless laugh, caught off guard. Steven huffs a laugh into her knee, kissing it better immediately.

Peggy feels bolder then, pulling him into her. He goes willingly, breath hot and warm before he licks over her clit delicately. His warm hands tighten on the back of her thighs, chasing little thrills over her skin.

She tugs on his hair again, just because she can, and goes hot at the broken little moan Steven sighs against her cunt. He licks the outer lips of her vulva, parting her but just teasing with the tips of his fingers. He concentrates so prettily, eyes closed and leaning into her hands as he licks her out. He rakes blunt nails down the back of her thigh, stopping just short of her stockings to smooth a hand and avoid running them.  He's so polite, even like this, with her skirt pulled up and his tie still perfectly straight, and she can't help but imagine him on his knees after a meeting, looking up at her with those pink, wet lips as she leans on the edge of her desk.

She rocks into his warm mouth, chasing the feel of his fingers dipping in and out of her, but he’s as much of a tease as ever, even with her tugging his hair to get the angle right. He circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, slowly, insistently, and she can feel his breathing come harder under her hands.

He shifts so that his thumb is on her clit so his tongue can flicker in and out of her, and Peggy’s thighs tighten around his head. She can feel how warm his cheeks are, how wet she is, how desperately he leans into her when she hooks one knee over his shoulder to pull him closer.

She comes in one cresting wave and then another, Steven licking her through it to draw it out, her whole body gone taut and throbbing. Steven, wicked minx that he is, slows his beautiful fingers just enough to let her pulse settle before building her back up again. She can’t tell if it’s a second climax or an echo of the first, but doesn’t particularly care as she grinds up into his warm, clever mouth.

When she’s got her breath back, she sits up to pet his hair, looking at how beautiful he is on his knees, rumpled with his shirt coming untucked and his hair a mess. She tugs him up by his tie and pushes him down on the bed next to her and he goes where she puts him, pliant and breathless as she lays him out on his back to look at him.

He's obviously hard, and he flushes a deeper pink when she rubs him through his trousers. “Did you?” she asks as he twists under her. She knows how the basic mechanics work, but she's never heard of a man so invested in cunnilingus and Steven's hands had been rather occupied. It's endearing, if he's this hard just from bringing her off.

“No ma'am,” he says, sounding faintly strangled. “I'm sorry, it's just, it's just what happens, I didn't mean anything by it.”  
  
She laughs and kisses his warm mouth, salty and faintly tasting of her. He makes a soft noise, arching up into her hand, and she thinks how cruel and wonderful it would be to keep him like this, on edge and needy while she takes advantage. Barnes took him hard and fast, and she wonders if that’s how Steven likes it, or Barnes, and determines to find out.  
  
Peggy tugs Steven's undershirt up out of his belt, nails on his warm belly, and he shudders against her, turning his face down into his shoulder as he blushes furiously. He takes the hint when she keeps tugging at his shirt, though, and he sits up to pull his tie and shirt off. He glances at her sideways through his dark lashes and she can see him look at her breasts, blushing when she catches him at it even though his mouth was on her cunt not five minutes ago. His mouth is wet and red, obscene and boyish when his shirt and tie land on the floor and he tries to square his narrow bare shoulders. He hesitates over his belt buckle, glancing at her through his lashes again.

Peggy straddles him in one motion, impatient enough to take matters into her own hands. His belt buckle is awkward and unfamiliar backwards, but she makes quick work of it, kissing him as a tactical diversion. His long fingers spasm on her thighs, his calluses catching on her stockings, tips of his fingers glancing under the hem of her skirt. She can feel the heat of his skin when he leans in to kiss the hollow of her throat delicately, and she thrills at having him so beautifully half dressed in her bed as she works open the button of his trousers. His breath comes quick and she can feel him sigh against her neck, wetting his lips before she leans back and gets his trousers open.

“Goodness,” Peggy says, pulling his hard cock out. “Are they all this big?”

Steven’s expression shutters closed immediately, his face tipped away from her. “Is that what you want, ma’am?” he asks, gone perfectly still.

“Is what _what_ I want,” Peggy says, because she’s got his warm cock in her hand and a conversation is the last thing she wants at that very moment even if Steven looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“To hear about other men. Ma’am,” Steven says.

Peggy takes his face in her hands very slowly and deliberately, making him look at her. He turns his face toward her but won’t meet her eyes, his look sliding over her lips and off to the side. “Steven,” she says in the tone that she knows gets his attention, and he finally looks at her, his eyes flickering up and then back down immediately. “ _You_ are who I want, and no one else,” she says, and kisses him.  


* * *

**Steve**

Steve goes where she leads, wanting to believe her. She kisses like she’s got nothing else on her mind, and much as he hates to admit it, all he wants is to pretend that there isn’t anything outside her warm rented room with her heavy and solid in his lap.

She strokes his cock slow enough to let him pretend that she really does want him, at least for tonight. If he doesn’t think about any of the rest of it, he can believe her, just focused on her warm steady hands and the way she kisses like she means to win. Steve leans in to kiss her collar bone and her neck, breathing in the warm smell of her hair and feeling her pulse. He nips her throat like he did her thighs, feeling her arch into it.

“Do that again, harder,” she breathes. She presses his cock to her vulva, her skirt and slip hiked up her pale thighs as she grinds against him, slick and hot. He can see down her dress at this angle, pinked curve of her breasts and the edge of her black brassiere; enough to know that he shouldn’t be looking but enough to want to anyway.

Steve kisses her throat apologetically. “I don’t want to leave a mark on you, ma’am.”

Carter leans back to fix him with a look, and he’s almost sure he’s going to get told off for telling her what she wants until she gives him a sly smile. “One way to fix that,” she says, and half turns so that he can reach her zipper.

He helps her out of her red dress, laying it over a chair for her while she stands to step out of her slip and garter belt.

Her breasts are gorgeous, heavy and blushed pink over her black brassiere until he reaches up to undo it for her, distractingly close to her. Her matching panties are on the floor behind him, and he takes a second to just look at her, like he’d ever be daring enough to draw her like that somewhere they guys wouldn’t see. He left that sketchbook at home, though, the one with the drawings of Cassius from the few weeks they went together, the one with the sketches of the counter girl who let him buy her a coffee sometimes.

Carter’s beautiful in the half light, soft curves and hard edges. She’d be in charcoal, or white pastel on red paper, the light glowing in her hair.

“You may look _and_ touch, Steven,” she says. She puts one knee on the bed and leans into him with an intent look, and Steve can’t help but stare at her, the curve of her breasts and the dark triangle of her hair. She pushes him down on his back again and tugs his pants off. Steve looks ridiculous, ankle caught in a tangle of fabric, but she just laughs and tosses his trousers on the ground to straddle him again, both of them naked in the lamp light. She’s got freckles on her pale thighs and shoulders, and his mouth leaves a red mark on her breast when he sits up and she lets him kiss her skin.

He can feel how hot and wet she is rocking into him, her breath coming in little catches and hitches as he circles one nipple with the pad of his thumb and kisses dark little marks along the curve of her other breast. Her nails scratch through his hair and Steve catches his breath when she starts to stroke his cock again purposefully.

“I haven’t got a prophylaxis, ma’am,” Steve breaths against her collarbone, because of all the nights to be walking around without one.

She just kisses him and leans over to open the little nightstand drawer. _New De-Luxe 3 Commandos_ the prophylaxis tin says, and Carter gives him a wan smile. “It was the only sort they were handing out,” she says, and puts it down so that the little cartoon of Barnes and Dugan and Monty on the lid is face down once she’s got the rubber out.

She nearly puts it on him wrong way around, but once Steve puts it on right and pinches the tip, she rolls it down his cock with sure hands. “A bit different than putting it on a gun, isn’t it?” she laughs breathlessly, and Steve hopes she isn’t as nervous as he is.

If she is, she doesn’t show it, both hands in his hair to hold him in place as she kisses him. He gets a hand between them to stroke her clit, drawing little circles with his thumb the way she liked before, his other hand on her thigh steadying her as she rolls her hips into his hand.

She’s slick and hot when she slides down onto him, cupping his face so he has to look her in the eye instead of hiding his face in her beautiful breasts like he wants to. Everything narrows down to the white heat of her when she kisses him greedily, his hands tightening on her soft round hips as she rocks into him.

She rocks against him slowly at first, her strong legs wrapped around him, just moving them together. She puts arms over his shoulders and turns her face into his neck so he can feel her breath, her soft breasts pressed against his chest as she scratches nails down his back. Steve lets her set the pace, one step behind her and trying to keep up as she twists fingers in her hair and tugs his face down to her shoulder.

He catches the hint to bite her shoulder, her whole body going taut as she drives them faster. She arches back so that Steve can mouth her nipples, hands spread wide on her hips, buried in the smell of her warm skin and wrapped up in her. She sets a relentless pace, the muscles of her legs working under his hands and her skin too hot to touch while Steve tries to hang onto her.

Steve comes without a sound, face buried in her shoulder as she rides him though it. She’s unstoppable, a tidal wave, and that more than anything pushes him over, drowning in her with nothing but her nails in his back to keep him anchored.

He moans into her soft breasts as she arches back to fuck him through it, overwhelmed as her thighs tighten around him. She’s strong, so strong, solid and real despite everything. He keeps his thumb on her clit, hand on her warm thigh, focused on bringing her through it.

When she comes, he feels it go through her like a ripple. It’s almost too much, she’s almost too much, burning bright with the lamp light behind her. He’ll have nail marks down his back in the morning but it’s worth it for the way she shivers wrapped around him, catching her breath.

When her breathing settles, she uncurls from him to flop down on the mattress, unladylike and radiant. Her nipples are still dark and peaked, and she gives him a triumphant look.

“Did you?” she asks, smoothing a hand over his thigh so that he shivers.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. She looks him up and down, appraising. Steve licks his lips, not sure if he can say anything under the weight of her look, so he doesn’t.

He swings his legs off the bed to avoid her look and pulls the condom off, wincing a little at the snap. Barnes and the guys don't like them, but they're not so bad. Neater than cleaning up afterwards, but Barnes and the guys don't have to deal with that part, so why would they care. Steve pads across the room to toss the condom, and Agent Carter watches him from the bed, head pillowed on one arm and fairly glowing with her hair spilling across her shoulder. He's about to scoop his clothes off the floor and retreat back behind his curtain, away from her knowing, penetrating look, but then she reaches out a hand and pulls him back into bed with her.  
  
Agent Carter shoves him a little, pushing him until he's lying on his back with her head pillowed on his shoulder and his arm tucked around her. It's disorienting for a second, because this is how Barnes likes to lie after, but with Steve tucked under his arm like this, but then Steve's brain catches up to the way her warm breasts are pressed against him and how good she feels when she hooks a knee over his and tucks closer, and then he hasn't got room in his head for anything else. She strokes a warm hand over his hip, idly drawing little circles with her nails.

“Steven?” she says after a minute, and Steve takes one more deep breath of her before he gets told to get out of her bed.

“Yes ma’am?” he says when she doesn’t say anything.

Carter hums, tucking against him tighter. “You don’t have to call me ma’am in bed, but I rather liked it. Turn out the light, please.”

Steve stretches to click off the light, glad she can’t see the embarrassing look on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he says, and tries not to be too pleased with the way she smiles against his shoulder.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty terrible even by my standards. bucky says and does terrible things to steve, so a big warning for noncon and homophobic slurs.
> 
> enjoy the other shoe dropping.

**Steve**

Steve’s awake first because he always is, Carter’s arm slung around his waist. She’s too warm, tucked in behind him with her nose pressed to his shoulder and one of her ankles threaded through his, but it’s hard to care with her breasts pressed against him. His back hurts, though, so he rolls over, careful to not wake her. She sighs in her sleep and drapes herself over him, arm still slung over his waist. It’s still early enough to be dark; cozy and safe like neither of them have to be anywhere else in the world, and Steve indulges in the selfish little pretend that maybe he could go home to someone like this when everything’s said and done.

She stirs against him after a minute, waking up slowly as her breathing deepens. Steve breathes her in, because they both have places to be, and her warm, safe bed isn’t one of them. Barnes and the guys expect him back by breakfast, and they’re due to roll out to the field again the next morning, without Carter.

Carter stretches against him, coming fully awake and propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. Her hair's mussed, little flyaways escaping her curls, and she looks beautiful between her tousled hair and bandaged arm and leg. Now that Steve can see, it looks like she caught shrapnel. “It's still early, would you like a shower?” she says. “There's hot water.”

That’s a dismissal even if it’s a gentle one, back to real life instead of Steve’s selfish fantasies, so he nods and gets out of her bed.

Except she follows him, pulling a robe around herself as he jumps into his shorts and undershirt, and she laces her fingers in his and gives him a sly smile over her shoulder. So maybe she means to go again instead of getting rid of him. Steve lets her lead the way down to the shared bath, chewing his lip.

It would be easier with Barnes and the guys; just turn around, brace against the wall and let them do the work. Steve might be able to get it up again for long enough to get Agent Carter off, but he might not get off himself and what if she's offended he doesn't come. He doesn't think he can get himself hard again with her watching.

She turns on the water and waits for it to warm up, catching him one handed for a kiss while he's still trying to will himself hard again. She's almost as tall as Barnes but she stoops a little so that he doesn't have to crane his neck so far to kiss.

She takes his hand again when the water is warm, and she goes straight to soaping her hair. Steve stands there a minute, somewhere between confused and distracted by her hard, dark nipples, until she hands him the soap and he makes quick work of it.

She doesn't ignore him, not exactly, but she's got none of the guys' predatory interest, like she doesn’t want anything from him except for him to be there, and when was the last time Steve showered with someone and they didn't want to fuck him. He thinks for a minute she might, and he even starts to get half hard again with no work, when she presses up against him to kiss and she's so warm and slippery under his hands, but that's all she does until the water starts to run cool and she tugs him out of the shower.

* * *

The guys are busy when Steve makes it back after breakfast, maps and blueprints and notes for their next run laid out over cots and footlockers. Some of them are in Steve’s handwriting, enlarged and annotated mimeographs of the drawings he’s handed over to Carter for the SSR, but the guys barely acknowledge him while he gathers up their dirty laundry. They don’t know his handwriting, and why would they. They know Steve hands off his drawings to the SSR the same way they know he washes their dirty socks; doesn’t make the socks special.

Barnes is nowhere to be seen, which at least means that Steve doesn’t have to deal with his sour look right away. Steve concentrates on scrubbing the stains out of their undershirts in the little washbasin.

* * *

Barnes doesn’t make an appearance until after supper, when the guys are playing cards and Steve’s finished enough of their mending to work on his own. Steve can feel it building like a fever the longer Barnes is gone, the light headed, achy feeling coming up like a fog, like Barnes will take one look at him and know. What, exactly, Steve can’t say, but reason never stopped a fever.

Barnes blows in like a thunderstorm after dark, snapping his fingers at Steve without breaking stride on his way to the NCO’s billet, not even looking to see if Steve follows. Steve gets one look over his shoulder at Dugan, Monty and Jones looking studiously anywhere but after Steve and Barnes, as if Steve didn’t already know Barnes was in a mood. Steve wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants and follows, because Barnes is in a mood.

Barnes slams him against the door as soon as it closes, one big hand fisted in Steve’s shirt and tie, already starting to tug Steve’s buttons undone with his other. Barnes won’t look him in the eye, Steve dancing up on his tip toes with his heart hammering in his throat as soon as Barnes gets hands on him because this isn’t just a quick fuck.

This is what he gets for telling Barnes off earlier, Barnes’ face dark as he makes quick work of Steve’s buttons.

“Sarge, what—“ Steve stutters.

“Shut up,” Barnes says without looking at him, and it only occurs to Steve then to be scared. Barnes has on his command voice, his body set and his face grim, like Steve’s a mission he intends to finish one way or another. Steve didn’t let him do it with his fake charm and his oily smooth voice earlier, and now he intends to do it mean without any room for Steve to get away. The guys won’t do a goddamn thing if Steve puts up a fuss and they both know it.

Steve fumbles in his pocket for the vaseline as his pulse picks up, hoping Barnes isn’t angry enough to want to hurt him instead of just humiliate him. He could try to fight, but that’d just get him a broken nose or worse.

He barely closes his hand around it when Barnes wrenches Steve’s arm up, slamming him back against the door again. Steve twists away from him without thinking, breaking out of Barnes’s hold like Carter showed him, and then there’s a jagged, heart stopping moment where Steve’s got a hand on the doorknob until he ends up face down on the bed with Barnes twisting his arms behind his back, tube of vaseline still in Steve’s hand.

Steve’s only seen him do this twice, with Hydra prisoners who pulled a knife, and Barnes ended it with a gun to the backs of their heads both times.

“Slick, it’s just the slick—“ Steve gasps against the pain, Barnes’s weight keeping him in place with his legs spread where he’s bent over the cot. Carter showed him what to do if this happened, how to use a bigger man’s weight against him to throw him off, but he can’t remember it now, panic creeping in around the edges the longer Barnes stands there silent with Steve’s arm twisted behind his back. Steve’s hand is sweaty around the tube of vaseline, and he can feel Barnes staring a hole in his back.

Barnes takes the slick from him, feeling prickling back into Steve’s hands as Barnes steps back and lets him go. “Get undressed,” Barnes says, his voice flat.

Something hot snaps in Steve’s chest; resentment, or fear, or anger, he can’t even tell which any more, just flat tired of being scared of Barnes. Steve clenches his eyes shut for a second before he moves, because he’ll be damned before he cries over this in front of Barnes, now or ever.

Then he sits up to yank his shirt and tie off, not bothering to fold them or look at Barnes. Just because he has to let Barnes fuck him doesn’t mean he has to like it, and Barnes might as well know that if he doesn’t already. Especially if he means it to hurt, so that Steve has to think about it every step of the march for the next week, his ass fucked raw so that Barnes can play petty tyrant.

When he’s stripped bare, Steve gets on his hands and knees like he did the first night, like he did at the pro station, when he didn’t know or care who was fucking him. Barnes isn’t any different from any of the rest of them, even if it’s going to hurt.

Barnes’ weight makes the mattress dip, enough that Steve can’t pretend to himself that he’s not shaking when he adjusts to keep from being tipped over. He doesn’t look and doesn’t care whether Barnes stripped too, because what’s it matter.

Except that Barnes flips him over with one broad hand, so that Steve’s laid out on his back, because of course he does. Barnes likes to watch, likes to see Steve’s face when they fuck, so why would this be any different. Steve keeps his eyes on the ceiling and swallows convulsively.

His shaky control almost breaks when Barnes takes Steve’s limp cock in hand and starts to stroke him harder, Barnes’ gun callouses dry and his hand too tight. There’s something wrong with Steve, that he couldn’t get it up for Carter that morning but he can get it up now, because Steve doesn’t have to like it, but that’s never really mattered and Barnes knows it. Steve’ll probably come from it too, and his face goes hot knowing that even if it hurts, Barnes knows exactly how to fuck him in the ass to make him come.

Steve keeps his eyes on the ceiling and tries to will himself harder, anything to get this over with faster. Except his thoughts keep catching on the first time Barnes sucked him off, when Steve was sure this was going to happen but Barnes caught him off guard instead, boyish and vulnerable and Steve made the mistake of thinking things would be different. There’s something wrong with Steve, because he can’t even think of Carter, circling back to where he’s trapped with Barnes’ weight boxing him in.

When he’s hard enough for Barnes’ satisfaction, Barnes backs off just long enough for Steve to gulp a breath and close his eyes. He tries to make himself relax; it’ll hurt less if he can relax, even if it’s dry, but he can’t relax and keep his face under control both.

Steve’s pride wins out, because what else has he got besides that.

Barnes’ hands, when they come back, don’t shove Steve’s legs up, or anything else he’d been expecting. Barnes plants one hand on the mattress beside Steve’s head, his weight shifting, and then he’s straddling Steve and putting a hand on the base of Steve’s cock. Steve jolts, looking at Barnes for the first time.

He has just enough time to realize that Barnes is doing exactly what Steve thinks he’s doing before Barnes sinks down on Steve’s cock, and the air goes out of Steve like he’s been punched. It’s just a little, just the tip; Barnes is too tight; he slicked himself up some, but he’s not relaxed, working himself down on Steve’s cock through sheer force of will. It has to hurt, it can’t not.

Steve’s hands spasm, thinking to put a hand on Barnes’ thigh and soothe him through it because it has to hurt, by the look on Barnes’ face and every time Steve’s been fucked when he didn’t want to.

Barnes catches Steve’s hand in one big fist and pins them to the mattress above his head, the look on his face still dangerous. Steve can’t tell who he’s punishing with this, Steve or himself.

Barnes fucks him without a sound, hard and relentless, and Steve can’t look away despite himself. He watches Barnes with big eyes, like this is happening to someone else, because how many times has Steve fantasized about this when Barnes fucked him but now it’s nothing like he wanted.

Steve comes almost against his will, because this is exactly what he wanted, just not this way. Barnes fucks him through it, jerking himself now that Steve’s finished, keeping Steve pinned there feeling wrung out and off balance.

Barnes comes with his mouth twisted around something he won't say, spattering Steve's face and chest, and then he's off the bed in one motion. Steve sits up on one elbow as Barnes scoops his clothes off the floor.

"Sarge?" Steve says as Barnes steps into his trousers. But Barnes won't look at him, and then he's gone, out the door without a word.

* * *

Steve sleeps poorly, because he knows Barnes isn’t coming back after that, but he wakes up rattled and shaky at every cough and sound from the guys in the main room. He could creep out to sleep in his usual cot with the guys, but the thought of being out there exposed with all of them makes him feel scrubbed raw.

It’s childish and he knows it, but when reveillie sounds, all Steve wants to do is stay in bed wrapped up in his misery. Barnes didn’t hurt him, barely laid a hand on him and said even less. There’s nothing to be upset about, and here he is wanting to hide. If Barnes had just beaten the shit out of him, Steve would have bounced back until he couldn’t stand and then kept snarling, not kept wallowing in this pathetic self pity.

The guys are subdued when Steve gets up to make coffee, packing up their gear to roll out come daybreak, and Steve can’t tell if that’s because they’ve seen Barnes and he’s still in a mood or because no one’s seen him since the night before.

The storm comes to a head just when they’re all packed up and ready to go looking for Barnes; a man with auxiliary tabs Steve doesn’t recognize makes straight for them across the parade ground, but Carter intercepts him and Barnes intercepts her, like watching two storm fronts meet over the harbor. At a sharp gesture from Carter, the third man leaves, but whatever Barnes says is lost down wind, too far away to catch what they’re saying.

The guys and Steve all watch Barnes and Carter without trying to even hide that they’re watching. Neither of them look at him, but Steve can tell they’re fighting about him from the way Barnes’ back goes stiff.

Monty sighs. “I hate it when Mum and Dad fight.”

“Don’t call her that,” Steve snaps, patience strung tight, and Dugan laughs at him.

“Son, Agent Carter’s the stern but loving father figure I never had,” Dugan says, ruffling Steve’s hair. “It’s Barnes that’s the mothering type. Thought you of all people’d know that by now.”

Morita laughs at that. “Two bucks says Sarge gets his ass kicked and spends the rest of the day sulking.”

“Easy money,” Dugan scoffs. “Ten if he makes her punch him again.”

“Done,” Morita says, and they shake on it. “Sarge isn’t that dumb.”

* * *

**Peggy**

Barnes’ orders to transfer Steven cross her desk almost too late, submitted late enough the previous evening that he had to have known she would be in meetings with Phillips too late and too early to catch it before Barnes and his men leave without Steven. Barnes knew exactly what he was doing and timed it to slip her notice.

It’s only by the grace of Private Lorraine’s good eye and a pair of sensible heels that Peggy intercepts the auxiliary minder come to collect Steven. Barnes calls him back angrily, but he and Barnes both know that Peggy’s the ranking officer in this chain, even if Barnes hardly acts like it.

“You never actually fucked him,” Barnes spits when it’s clear Peggy’s won.

“I beg your pardon,” Peggy says. Of all the accusations she was expecting, this one was not it, standing in the middle of the parade ground at first blush of dawn with all of Barnes’ men clearly watching them.

Barnes scoffs at her. “If SSR wants a babysitter on us so bad, you should cross your t’s better, Miss Carter. You never signed Rogers’ VD logs, you think I wasn’t going to figure it out?”

Peggy gives him a long look. “Private Rogers has been handling delicate priorities for the SSR on a need-to-know basis. And you, sergeant, did not need to know.”

“Bull _shit,_ ” Barnes spits at her. Peggy has not the shadow of a doubt that he’d take a swing at her if she was a man, and she almost wishes he would. At least then she’d have a good reason to knock him on his ass. “He’s an auxiliary, not a soldier. You’re going to get him killed.”

“And he’s safe as houses in the field with you, sergeant?” Peggy snaps back. “He serves the SSR’s interests exactly because he’s not a soldier, and he’s not going anywhere so long as he does.”

“You’re going to get him killed,” Barnes says again.

“He made his choices, sergeant. Perhaps you should respect that for a change.”

Barnes colors at that, as though he has any shame or decency left. “Don’t tell me how to run my unit.”

Peggy gives him a long look. “Do you treat him so horridly because you think you love him, or because you hate yourself?”

* * *

**Steve**

Barnes goes rigid like Carter slapped him, and there’s a long moment where neither of them move. Steve wonders if Barnes will get himself demoted or court martialed, and what’ll happen to the rest of them then.

But then Barnes turns on his heel and stalks away from Carter. She says something to his back that makes him falter a step; he catches his balance and turns to snap her a crisp salute, and then Barnes turns away from her again, his face dark. Steve catches Carter glancing his way, but then Steve looks away because Barnes won’t look at him and Steve doesn’t know what that means.

The guys watch Barnes without moving a muscle, all standing there waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Get in the fucking truck,” Barnes snarls at them, and doesn’t look at Steve.

* * *

Barnes avoids him the whole hike out and back; won't fuck him, won't look at him. If it were just Carter, or just the other thing, Steve might understand why, but as it is his stomach just twists around when he hands Barnes his morning coffee and Barnes won't even look at him.

The guys notice because of course they notice, and they start avoiding Steve like he's got the clap even though no one says anything. They play cards in the evenings and brush him off three nights running when he offers to blow anyone.

They don’t do anything to him, they just—don’t do anything to him, don’t particularly talk to him, don’t really acknowledge him.

* * *

On the hike back they make camp against the tumble down foundation of an old stone wall, probably torn down even before the Nazis and the Vichy took the area. Dugan tosses Steve’s pack farther from the others, like he has the last few nights running, like Steve’s got something catching.

Steve sits against the cool stone wall while the guys cook beans; it’s a warm enough night that they won’t bother putting up tents, so it’ll just be Steve who’s sore and cold in the morning. It’s fine; Steve’s still got Barnes’ ratty old sweater, if he can make himself wear it.

Barnes steps away from the others to take a piss after a while, and Steve goes after him. It’s stupid, but it’s the first time Barnes has stepped away from the guys since Steve decided to work up his courage to say something about it.

It’s got to be over Carter or the other thing; he thought for a while maybe the auxiliary minder told Barnes and Carter that Steve _did_ have something catching, but then why would they let him go back out in the field.

It’s got to be over Carter or the other thing.

Steve hangs just out of range until Barnes finishes, awkward as all hell with his hands sweaty in his pocket, but what other chance is he going to have. Barnes avoids him otherwise, so it’s awkward or nothing.  
  
Barnes knows he’s there, giving Steve a side long look as he buttons himself up and fishes a cigarette out without saying anything. "Sarge, about the other night—" Steve twists his hands in his pockets and makes himself stop. He didn’t think this part out.

"What about it," Barnes says, lighting his cigarette without looking at Steve.

Steve takes a steadying breath and gets on with it. They’re out of hearing of the guys; it’s now or never, if Barnes won’t bring it up. "I wouldn't say anything to the guys, or anyone, if that's how you want it."

"What," Barnes says, flat, and finally looks up at him.

"The other night? If that's how you want it, I don't mind, I wouldn't say a thing about it— "

"I'm not a faggot," Barnes says like a slap across the face, and walks away from him.

* * *

It’s horseshit, is what it is.

Steve spends the rest of the hike back to camp so mad he can’t see straight, mad at himself for taking so long to be this uselessly, impotently angry. It was always ever horseshit, but Steve was so desperate for anyone like Barnes to treat him halfway decent he pretended that all of Barnes’ horseshit didn’t matter.

So Steve does the one thing he can do about it, if Barnes won’t look him in the eye: Steve goes to Phillips’ people as soon as they’re back, and asks for papers to transfer back to the London pro stations. He might even still be able to see Carter once in a while. Phillips never liked Steve, or the idea of Steve, so all he needs is his NCOIC’s signature.

All he needs is Barnes’ signature.

The guys are unhelpful when Steve goes looking for him, all one word answers and shrugs because they know just as well as he does that Barnes is avoiding him. How any of them think they’re all supposed to keep up with this, Steve doesn’t know, but he’s done with the petty bullshit.

He finally finds Barnes in the least likeliest of places, and that more than anything tells Steve Barnes is avoiding him, because he’d never be caught doing his paperwork in the basement of the SSR building otherwise. It’s a cramped little closet of a room, barely big enough to fit a desk in.

Barnes glances up from the report he’s writing but doesn’t acknowledge Steve otherwise, cigarette hanging off his lips and ash sprinkled everywhere. From the smoke in the air and the butts in the ashtray, he’s been down here a while.

Steve tosses the transfer orders on his desk. It’s horseshit and Steve’s done with it.

“The fuck is this?” Barnes says, rearing back like Steve’s brought him a dead bird.

“My transfer papers. Back to the pro station.”

“You're not going anywhere,” Barnes says, and sweeps the papers off his desk and into the trash. “Dismissed.”

Steve stoops to get the papers and tosses them back on Barnes’ little desk, angry enough to pick a fight over it. “Might as well, if you don't—“ — _want_ — “—need me any more.”

Barnes leans back in his chair at that, looking Steve up and down. He’s as unreadable as ever, cigarette hanging from his lips insouciant. “I already put in to transfer you,” Barnes says finally, watching Steve’s reaction because he means it to hurt. “But SSR wants a spook on us, so we’re stuck with you.”

“You—“ Steve's mouth works, but he can’t force sound out, not sure if the tightness in his chest is Barnes trying to get rid of him, or the guys thinking Steve has been spying on them.

His anger’s almost deflated, but then Barnes opens his mouth again to twist the knife. “The cat house was supposed to come get you the morning we left, but your girl Carter blocked it,” Barnes says evenly.

Barnes only fucked Steve like that because he thought he’d never see Steve again. The knowledge hits him like a slap in the face, and Barnes knows it from his look.

Steve’s breath comes short like it did when he was a kid, but this is something else entirely, all his anger suddenly twisted around. Steve’s mouth works, dry and trying to find the right words. “I was under orders, Bucky, you know me—“ Steve says, tripping over what he’s allowed to tell Barnes.

“Doesn’t matter,” Barnes says with a shrug. “Didn't expect any better from a whore. Why wouldn't you spread for the SSR too.”

Steve’s so mad he sees white; it’s not about anything he did, because Barnes will just throw it back at him no matter what he says. It’s about Barnes punishing Steve for wanting Steve to fuck him so that Barnes doesn’t have to admit it to himself.

“You’re a coward, is what you are.” The words are out of Steve’s mouth before he barely thinks them, spitting mad and going to speak his mind even if Barnes finally beats the shit out of him for it. It would be better than this; anything would be better than this.

Barnes stands. They both know Steve would never win against him in a fair fight. Steve puts his fists up anyway, because even when he had nothing, he still had his pride.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Steve says.

“Maybe you should be,” Barnes says.

He takes up the whole space, looming without even trying, and Steve has let him until now. Barnes doesn’t move a muscle because he doesn’t have to.

They just look at each other for a long minute, and then Steve throws the first punch. He was never going to win a fair fight anyway.

Barnes catches his fist easily, twisting Steve's wrist just enough to promise hurt if Steve forces the issue. Barnes leans in close, so that he and Steve are eye to eye on the same level for once, like Carter did to kiss him, like Barnes has never done. “I'm not gonna punch you,” Barnes says quietly, and lets Steve's fist go, “because I don't hit girls.”

Steve jerks back, staggering a step as he rights his balance. Barnes just watches him, mouth twisted around his cigarette where it’s gone out.

Steve stands there breathing raggedly like he’s just run a mile. He’ll be damned before he lets Barnes see him cry over this or anything else.

“You’d have never—you’d have never, unless it meant something,” Steve says finally.

Barnes barks out a laugh at that, ugly and mean. “Unless it meant something?” He laughs in Steve’s face and finally flicks his dead cigarette away. “So what if it fucking did,” Barnes says, walking Steve backwards with a finger on his chest. “So what if it fucking meant anything with you trying to get yourself killed and Carter helping you do it. Doesn’t matter if it meant anything, because you don’t know what Hydra’s going to do to you when they get their hands on a fairy spy. Torture isn’t even the half of it.”

“I’m a soldier just as much as you are,” Steve says, and waits for Barnes to tell him he’s not.

He watches Barnes think it, his jaw working around it, but he doesn’t say it. Steve can see him sift through what to say, not sure if that’s better or worse.

“How am I supposed to keep you safe if you won’t let me,” Barnes says instead, which is almost as bad.

“I don’t need your _protection_ ,” Steve snaps in his face, done with these sideways jumps and twisting himself around trying to follow Barnes. They’re practically chest to chest, or they would be if they were the same height. As it is, Steve glares up at Barnes, feeling about two feet high and mad as a rat terrier.

“You prideful, reckless—“ Barnes snarls back at him, cutting off whatever he was going to say. “You get caught spying and they’ll cut you open to hollow you out,” he says, and by the end of it he’s shouting. He’s overwhelming in the small space, filling Steve’s entire field of vision, his voice bouncing off the close walls so it’s claustrophobic, pressing in on Steve. “They’ll torture everything about the SSR out of you and then they’ll scramble your brains til you hardly know your own name, and then what, Steve?”

“Then I’m dead and no one cares, just like before,” Steve shouts right back.

“I care,” Barnes yells. “What the fuck am I supposed to do without you.”

Steve opens his mouth, whatever he was going to yell evaporated.

Barnes looks shattered as soon as he says it, swallowing it back, his face as open and vulnerable as Steve’s ever seen him. “Fuck,” Barnes says, and sinks back down in his desk chair.

Steve swallows thickly, feeling like the floor’s just shifted under his feet. Barnes sits with his elbows on his knees, head down. “So it did mean something,” Steve says finally.

“Fuck, yes, of course it meant something,” Barnes says without looking at him.

“You got a shit way of showing it.” Steve’s anger is still there, but it’s far away now, like an ache that’ll be worse come morning. His chest and his back hurt, like he’s been carrying something too long but didn’t notice it until it was gone.

“I know,” Barnes says, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Steve’s own heartbeat feels too loud in his ears. If he left now, they could keep on like they have been and pretend this never happened; things could go back to normal, when they’d both known how things were supposed to go and could just keep on being miserable.

Steve knows how to do that; he doesn’t know how to do this other thing either.

“Liking it up the ass doesn’t make you any less of a man,” Steve says after a while, if that’s what’s got Barnes all twisted up in knots.

“Yes it does,” Barnes says miserably to the floor.

It’s like a slow punch in the gut, one thing after another. Steve knew Barnes thought it, and thought it about Steve, but even after everything it’s different hearing him say it out loud. Steve’s ears feel hot and his stomach goes tight. He just—could pretend Barnes didn’t, when he didn’t say it out loud, could pretend that Barnes didn’t look down on him like everyone else.

“Is that what you think of me?” Steve says finally. Better to have it out in the open now, like lancing a boil, because maybe there isn’t anything about this worth salvaging.

Barnes looks up at him, like he’s been too wrapped up in his own misery to even think about Steve. He doesn’t say anything, but he can’t look Steve in the eye.

“Liking it doesn’t make _me_ any less of a man,” Steve says stiffly. “I’m done with this horseshit until you sort yourself.”

“Steve,” Barnes says, sounding hoarse. He finally looks Steve in the eye. “I am a coward. You scare the shit out of me and I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what,” Steve says. He’s just so tired, tired of pretending that he’s okay, tired of holding his chin up like it doesn't hurt.

Barnes swallows thickly. “How to l—how to not hurt you,” he says.

“You could start by apologizing.”

“You know I didn’t mean any of it,” Barnes says, and has the decency to sound sick over it.

“I don’t, that’s the problem,” Steve says. Steve’s always known there was the side he showed Steve and the side he showed everyone else, and that was fine when they were mostly the same, when he didn’t get Steve’s hopes up for anything else. “But I didn’t mean what you said, I meant what you did. I am a whore, but you don’t get to do that to me.”

“I know, I didn’t—“ Barnes stops himself, looking like he’d rather be doing anything but looking Steve in the eye, but he doesn’t look away this time. Steve waits for him to make his excuses so that Steve can just wash his hands of this. Waits for him to say that he wasn’t thinking, that he was just angry, that he thought Steve wanted it, whatever excuse he made to himself. But Barnes just swallows again and says, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, feeling suddenly vulnerable because that was the last thing he expected Barnes to say and doesn’t know what to do with it. He looks at his shoes, at the floor, anywhere but at Barnes. “I need to—I need to think about this for a while,” Steve says eventually.

“Yeah, you do that,” Barnes says. Steve doesn’t look at him, in case Barnes looks as raw as his voice sounds and as Steve feels.

Steve keeps his hands busy back in the barracks, keeping his head down while the guys go right on avoiding him. Barnes comes back after supper call and doesn’t say much, chain smoking with his shoulders tight and watching the guys play cards. But he doesn’t avoid Steve, and the guys notice that too, Dugan looking back and forth between them like he can read everything neither of them are saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more fun choose-your-own-adventure pain:
> 
> A. Bucky doesn't wait for Steve to make up his mind, goes and bangs Pvt. Lorraine, Steve is heartbroken, Steve and Bucky have angsty, emotionally constipated sex and don't talk about it for the rest of the war, and on V-E day Steve takes off for a transfer to Berlin and they don't see each other again until [chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3353516/chapters/9132568).
> 
> B. Bucky keeps it in his pants until next chapter.


	23. Chapter 23

If anything’s changed, Steve can’t tell.

Barnes doesn’t say much to Steve, but he doesn’t say much to anyone else either. He’s gone the next morning before even Steve’s up, guilty or embarrassed Steve can’t tell when he catches sight of Barnes across camp later. Busy, looks like, walking with Phillips’ staff like they have somewhere to be.

Dugan and Jones and Dernier give Steve sour looks like they know it’s his fault. Steve would avoid them too if he didn’t think the MPs would haul him back as an unsupervised public health hazard. Carter’s in the field, anyway, so it’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

The guys leave for mess without saying anything when Steve’s up to his elbows in shoe shine and the guys’ M43s, and by the time he jogs after them they’re too far ahead in line to stand with like usual. Steve keeps his head down and manages to get his food without any hassle, but by the time he’s got his plate, the guys haven’t got room at their table and won’t even acknowledge him to shove over like they usually do. He stands there for half a second with his knuckles white holding onto his tray before someone bumps him to get out of the way.

Steve sits by himself wedged between the cold wall and a private who won’t stop elbowing him. He gets about two bites of his gluey porridge before the guy across from him notices his collar tabs and starts to look him up and down, so Steve swallows the rest of his coffee in one go and pockets a slice of bread before making a tactical retreat.

He’ll eat at lunch.

* * *

He eats at supper, because the guys avoid him all day and Steve’s too prideful to let them see him eat alone at lunch again. Barnes turns up just before supper to plan out supplies for the next run with Dugan, and he doesn’t say a word to Steve but he also won’t leave for supper until Steve’s walking with them. Steve sits wedged between Barnes and the cold wall, and doesn’t takes his eyes off his tray to acknowledge the sour looks Dugan and Dernier are giving him across the table.

Steve determinedly does not look or act grateful, because Barnes disappears again right after supper.

* * *

It’s not a cold night, but it’s not exactly warm either. But it’s better than sitting on his cot where the guys make a point of ignoring him, and they’re on their way to drunk enough that Steve doesn’t particularly want to know what happens when they stop ignoring him. They’re none of them bad on their own, but Dugan’s a mean drunk and he’s obviously made up his mind that Barnes’ moping is Steve’s fault. Which it might well be, but it’s not as though Steve can do anything about it.

So Steve sits out on the front step of their barracks and smokes, because at least sitting alone in the dark wrapped in Barnes’ old coat no one hassles him about his collar tabs. He starts to feel sick to his stomach after the third or fourth cigarette, but it’s not as though he’s got anything else to do. It’s no worse than weeks at home he couldn’t make rent and slept out or nursed a coffee at all night diners, and the guys have to sleep sometime. The fifth of whiskey they gave him for his birthday helps with the cold, and Steve takes nips of it between hiding it in Barnes’ coat in case the MPs go by.

It’s full dark by the time Barnes materializes out of the dark, quiet as the dead. “You okay?” Barnes says, coming up on Steve’s bad side. Steve manages to not startle, but Barnes is uncanny, preternaturally silent when he wants to be.

“Yeah, I’m aces,” Steve says, fussing with his cigarette so he doesn’t have to look at Barnes while he lies to him. If the guys didn’t give a damn about Barnes throwing Steve against the door, Barnes won’t give a damn about the guys snubbing him at breakfast. It’s just petty schoolyard bullshit. “Just needed some air,” Steve says to his cold chapped hands.

Barnes gives him a measuring look, like he doesn’t quite believe it, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

He drops down to sit next to Steve on the step after a minute, and the solid warmth of him is halfway comfortable after sitting alone so long. Barnes taps a cigarette out of his own pack, but he’s got no lighter when he pats down his pockets.

Steve passes him his lighter, and Barnes’ hands are warm and callused where their fingers brush. He still smells like cigarettes and gun oil, and God help him, Steve still wants him after everything. Between the liquor and the vertigo of wanting Barnes, Steve feels put to sea, nervy and unbalanced.

“You smoke? At home, I mean?” Barnes asks after he gets his smoke lit. He holds it out in front of himself, rolling it between his fingers to look at it. “I never used to, started over here.”

Steve shrugs, hiding behind his own cigarette. “Sometimes.” Cheaper than groceries and helped not feel so hungry the weeks money was tight, but Steve’s not going to tell Barnes about that, with his dad’s car and his sisters’ piano lessons.

“When’d you start art school?” Barnes says, and Steve’s back goes tight. It’s just a question, but Barnes has never asked him anything like it before. No reason to.

“Thirty-eight,” Steve says slowly, and waits for the other shoe to drop. Barnes knows when his mother died; they were talking about money; there could be anything behind a question like that. He’d never thought Barnes would use something like that against him, but he’d never thought most of this would happen. Steve wishes they weren’t sitting so close.

“You see _Robin Hood_ that year?” Barnes says, slanting Steve a look sideways with something that might be a smile, and it’s such a sideways jump from what Steve was expecting he almost doesn’t hear. Barnes sounds like he does in bed sometimes, lazy and sly when he asks if Steve wants Barnes to fuck him. “I had an Errol Flynn mustache for about two months before my mother talked sense into me.”

“Good thing,” Steve says before he thinks better of it, and Barnes barks a laugh, short and surprised. He really smiles this time, the corners of his eyes crinkled like after they fuck sometimes. He’d look terrible with a pencil mustache but he looks good now, a few weeks’ rough beard even though they’re in camp, the collar of his coat open despite the chill.

Steve looks away from Barnes’ mouth to fish the whiskey out of his coat, Barnes’ mouth red and Steve’s hands chapped cold in the starlight. Steve takes a pull of the bottle for courage and offers it to Barnes.

Barnes has just taken it when heavy boots inside cross to the door, and Steve has just enough time to lean away from Barnes before Dugan opens the door. The guys are where he left them, playing cards on a footlocker by lamplight.

“The hell are you doing sitting out here in the cold?” Dugan says to Barnes, without acknowledging Steve. “Come play cards, you owe me another pair of dirty socks.”

Barnes takes a drink and hands it back to Steve before getting up, Barnes’ hand warm and obvious where he brushes Steve’s shoulder. “You coming?” he says to Steve, standing in the doorway.

Steve glances past him and Dugan to the guys, and their looks say he’ll regret it one way or another if he goes back in there, and that’s before looking up at Dugan and Barnes. “I’m good,” Steve says, glancing down at his hands to avoid the look Dugan is giving him.

Barnes looks back and forth between Steve and the guys, and Steve feels himself flushing despite the cold. With the lamplight spilling out the door, all the guys can see him sitting on the step wrapped up in Barnes’ old coat.

“You sure?” Barnes says after a long minute.

“Yeah,” Steve says to the step. Dugan propels Barnes inside and kicks the door shut behind them.

* * *

Steve sits on the step and replays the conversation to himself. The whiskey doesn’t help, but he drinks more anyway because it’s that or sit there listening to the guys laughing through their game.

Conversation. Barnes was making conversation with him. Even with Carter it was always more of an interrogation, sussing him out for the SSR. He misses her anyway, and Barnes on the other side of the door. The whiskey doesn’t help with that either.

* * *

He’s dozing against the railing ten minutes or two hours later when the sound of laughter and heavy boots startles him awake. He’s got just enough time to clumsily scramble to his feet, because that’s the sound of the guys deciding that they’re done ignoring him and Steve should have found somewhere else to spend the night instead of sitting out on the step waiting for this to happen. It’s his own fault, even if he is drunk enough to ball his fists like it’ll help anything if the guys are done ignoring him.

Barnes bangs the door open for Steve to catch a look at the guys, kicking it closed behind himself. Then he stands there in the dark, Steve braced against the railing like the three feet of distance makes a goddamn difference. Between the whiplash light and dark, Steve can’t see more than the outline of Barnes, dark and broad, can’t tell what he’s out there for.

“Dugan said you’ve been out here since supper,” Barnes says. Steve shrugs; Barnes’ tone says he’s looking for a fight more than an answer.

“You mind if I sit?” Barnes says.

“Sure,” Steve says thickly. He’s drunker than he thought, swaying on his feet even braced against the railing. He wonders if Barnes will care.

Barnes sits squarely on the step exactly where he was before, taking up enough space that if Steve sits, they’ll be shoulder to shoulder again. Steve wonders if he knows he does it, taking up enough space that Steve has to be near him regardless. Barnes takes out his cigarettes and fusses with the pack but doesn’t light one.

“Phillips has me in meetings again all day tomorrow,” Barnes says to the pack of cigarettes in his hands.

Steve sits slowly, trying not to look as drunk as he feels, uncomfortably aware of how much more quiet the guys are on the other side of the door. Barnes either knows or he doesn’t; he’s got more important things to do than babysit Steve at meals anyway. The guys in the mess hall like Steve well enough to trade for supper if he can swallow his pride for it.

“Phillips thinks we can get Zola,” Barnes says.

Steve looks at him straight on for the first time in days. Barnes looks as tired as Steve feels, now that Steve’s eyes have adjusted to the dark again. Zola’s the one Rumlow said he’d take Barnes back to, the one the guys curse about sometimes when they talk about Azzano and they think Steve can’t hear.

“You ever see _Dodge City_?” Barnes asks, finally lighting a cigarette and blowing out a breath. “Almost made me try growing the mustache again.”

* * *

The guys don’t say anything later when Barnes walks Steve through the barracks to the little NCO’s billet in the back; Steve shuffles beside him, drunk and half asleep on his feet even strung tight as he is, and coward enough to admit he’s putting Barnes between himself and the guys because he can feel them watching him. They don’t say anything, but they don’t really have to. Barnes shuts the door of the NCO’s billet, and then it’s just them in the dark again.

Steve struggles out of his coat and sweater, numb with the whiskey and glad of it. He’ll be hungover in the morning, but he doesn’t have to think about it now as he gets stripped to his shorts and undershirt.

Steve sits heavily on Barnes’ bed, feeling clumsy and drunk. He should be grateful; he owes Barnes, and Barnes probably knows it too, because why else would he bother being nice.

He made conversation.

Steve watches Barnes undress in the dark like he has a hundred times, the broad outline of him as he pulls his sweater off and unbuttons his shirt. Steve swallows a couple of times around the whiskey making his tongue thick and reaches for Barnes’ buckle when he starts to undo his belt.

“You want anything, Sarge?” Steve says, tipping his face up with his hands on Barnes’ belt, the way Barnes likes. He should be smiling, making himself sound like he wants it, because Barnes likes it when Steve gets off on sucking his cock, likes making Steve come while they’re fucking, but when has Steve ever had to seduce anybody. He’s got no practice at it, and can’t make himself want to anyway.

Barnes puts a hand on his neck, and Steve can’t read his look in the dark. “Not tonight,” Barnes says after a while, but he doesn’t move, stroking Steve’s jaw with his thumb. Down to his undershirt and trousers, standing this close, he smells like sweat and Steve’s whiskey, like they might be in Brooklyn.

“You should drink some water,” Barnes says, pulling away. He passes his canteen to Steve, stripping down to his shirt and shorts too while Steve drains the canteen. It’s bitter and metallic but it tastes good anyway.

* * *

Barnes is up first in the morning, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Steve feels like he drank turpentine, and Barnes doesn’t say anything about that either as Steve scrubs sand out of his eyes and struggles into his clothes. They walk to breakfast with Barnes’ hand on Steve’s shoulder and all the guys on Barnes’ other side, like Steve has something catching and he’s infected Barnes.

Steve eats wedged between Barnes and the wall, Dugan and Monty across from them so Steve regrets it every time he makes the mistake of looking up from his runny powdered eggs. Barnes holds court like he always does, easy and careless with Jones teasing him about the scruffy beard and Morita and Dernier bickering over how to distribute the weight for their next run, more explosives or a better radio pack.

Barnes leaves them to it and stands to get himself more coffee. Steve keeps his head down; the eggs don’t exactly help with the hangover, but it’s better than nothing.

He doesn’t think anything of it when Dugan reaches past him for the salt; the guys have been ignoring him all morning. He doesn’t think anything of it until Dugan tips Steve’s coffee cup over, just missing his tray.

Steve stands, his silverware clattering to the floor and everyone around them looking. His coffee drips from the table to the floor.

“Oops,” Dugan says, looking Steve in the eye. Everyone’s watching and Steve can feel his face go hot.

Monty gives Dugan a long look, sliding his cup of coffee across the table to Steve’s place. He doesn’t say a word, but he starts mopping up the spilled coffee with his napkin and Dugan’s.

Barnes comes up from behind Steve, landing a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Everything okay?” Barnes says.

“Ça roule, sarge,” Dugan says pleasantly, and Steve sits down with his jaw clenched and his face hot.

* * *

They’re due to roll out in two days; Steve gathers up their dirty laundry after breakfast, because even if they’re all ignoring him, they’ll still expect clean shirts. The 600 th QM might even get it back tomorrow if Steve asks nice enough.

He’s got his arms full of sweat stained undershirts and dirty socks when he trips over Morita’s boots, stuck out in the path between beds and not there a second ago. Dugan, Morita and Dernier laugh as Steve goes down face first in a tangle of their laundry, trying to catch himself before he breaks his nose again.

Steve’s face is hot as he picks himself and the laundry up, because what would he even say. He can’t fight all of them, not when they’re due to be in the field for weeks.

Jones crouches next to him to help pick up laundry without saying a word, giving Morita and Dugan a look while he does it. “Thanks,” Steve says when Jones passes him the last of it.

“Don’t mention it,” Jones says. Monty watches with his lips pressed thin, but he doesn’t say anything about it either. Then Barnes comes back from meetings and the guys are all busy with more important things.

* * *

Their usual, the couple of nights before leaving camp, is to pass around a bottle and Steve’s blue sketches and Steve, and then go to bed early. As it is, Steve hides in the bare privacy of the NCO’s billet and doesn’t eavesdrop when Barnes comes back and tells the guys the plan for the morning. They don’t need Steve for that anyway.

If it weren’t drizzling icy rain, though, he’d be sitting out on the steps again.

So Steve just sits on the floor with his back against the wall and waits for Barnes; the only other options are the bed or the NCO’s desk, which are both presumptuous, so the floor it is even though his bones still hurt from the night before and he still owes Barnes.

His back aches like he’s been hauling pack in the field and the guys in laundry asked if he was sick. And coward that he is, Steve waits for Barnes and thinks about malingering just to avoid being sent in the field with the guys like this, but the SSR needs him in the field.

Barnes has a tight look when he comes to bed, his movements stiff. He closes the door softly and leans against it, taking a couple of deep breaths. “You okay?” Barnes says, looking Steve up and down.

“Yeah,” Steve lies, struggling to his feet. “Aces.”

Barnes doesn’t say anything to that, whether he believes it or not, straightening to toss his coat and pullover on the chair before kicking off his boots.

Steve dawdles, slower getting his buttons undone than he should be with how late it is. Barnes shuffles paperwork on the desk, sitting barechested in trousers obviously waiting for Steve to get a move on. The muscles of his back and shoulders move as he leans his head on one hand and scribbles his signature on something, the drift of reports and requests fanned across his desk.

Steve folds his shirt neatly and steps out of his trousers. With their last day in camp tomorrow before rolling out, Steve’ll be jogging all over camp getting the guys’ laundry with no time to sort his own, so he folds his trousers as crisp as he can, putting them on Barnes’ footlocker at the end of the bed. Steve’s is out in the main room, and he can’t quite stomach the thought of walking past all the guys in his shorts and shirt tonight.

Barnes watches him put his clothes away, predatory or proprietary, Steve can’t tell. Steve stands up straight with his shoulders square, looking Barnes in the eye, because what else has he got but his pride. Barnes unfolds himself from the desk and Steve makes himself not cross his arms over his chest, even more conscious than usual of his own pigeon chest and knock knees with Barnes half dressed in trousers and no shirt.

Even in stocking feet, Barnes is still a full head taller than Steve, stepping into his space to put one hand on Steve’s waist and the other on the back of Steve’s neck. He smells like gun oil and the carbon copy paper the SSR offices use, the familiar-unfamiliar smell of him without cigarettes making the hair on the back of Steve’s neck prickle.

Barnes kisses down the line of Steve’s throat, stubble harsh even though he’s trying to be gentle. It doesn’t quite work; he looms even if he doesn’t mean to, overwhelming where he leans over Steve.

Steve can feel his pulse picking up as his hands undo Barnes’ belt on autopilot, and he turns his face away when Barnes tips Steve’s face up to kiss him on the mouth. Steve offered last time, but last time he was drunk.

“Can I blow you?” Steve says, aware that he’s bargaining. The last time he told Barnes no wasn’t worth it; at least Steve has a little more control with a cock in his mouth than in his ass.

Barnes leans back to give him a look. “You don’t want to fuck,” Barnes says slowly, his hands still on Steve’s hip and neck.

Steve shrugs tightly, avoiding Barnes’ eyes. “Just not like that,” Steve says, and Barnes jerks back like Steve’s slapped him.

Steve takes a step back; Barnes backs himself against the desk. “You’re not fucking me again,” Barnes says.

Steve looks at him, for the first time since the night before. Even in the dark, Barnes has hollows under his eyes, wary like they’ve been circling around scared of each other for the same reason. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t ask for that,” Steve says. Even if he never asked the first time either. The resentment and want is all wrapped up so tight Steve can’t tell if he’s seeing Barnes’ or his own reflected back at him.

Barnes looks at him, weighing that. “You don’t want to fuck tonight.”

Steve swallows. “Not tonight,” he says, and it’s mostly true.

“Christ, Steve,” Barnes says. He leans back on one hand, rubbing his temples with the other. “C’mere,” he says eventually, holding out a hand. “Come here, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Steve goes, because there’s something wrong with him that he still wants Barnes after everything. It was easier when Barnes was just one of the guys and Steve could keep his crush to himself. Knowing Barnes, and knowing more about him than just how he likes to fuck, was never supposed to be part of this assignment.

Barnes pulls Steve against him, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder. They stand there for a minute, Barnes’ arms around Steve’s waist for long enough that Steve puts his arms over Barnes’ shoulders, sagging against him.

Barnes blows out a sigh against Steve’s shoulder and stands, still holding Steve. “It’s late. You ready for bed?”

Steve leans against Barnes’ chest and nods, exhausted and unsteady on his feet like he’s still drunk. Barnes tucks in behind him to spoon in the narrow bed, solid and warm where he wraps himself around Steve. The guys are still talking in the main room, quiet and low, but Barnes is between Steve and the door, so he tries not to think about tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve: what do you mean you don't want to keep having transactional sex
> 
> Bucky: what do you mean we've been having transactional sex
> 
> potato, potahto, let's call the whole thing off
> 
> \--
> 
> @allthedamnedvampires suggested a couple chapters back 'what if all the howlies were completely terrible to steve' a few chapters back, and thus, it was. though @potofsoup saved things by suggesting a hug. moral of the story, I am very impressionable.
> 
> also, @yasgorl made me write sad future commentfic in the comments of [ch 14](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3353516/chapters/12519479) with bonus Thor the Nordic beat poet if you're into that kind of thing.
> 
> and I promise we'll get to the hatesex threesome soon, I just have to get all this misery porn out of my system first. <3 <3 <3


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg! 8k of misery porn, but also some actual porn! I'm not super happy with the pacing of this, but it's time to release it into the wild before I make it any worse. huge, huge thank you to @chalkbaphomet for betaing this and helping me restrain my more purple sensibilities.

Steve wakes up on his belly, Barnes’ hand cupping his ass.

It’s—nice, or—it would be nice, any other morning. The icy drizzle has started again, or just didn’t stop over night, but they’re tucked in warm and dry as they ever get, Barnes radiating heat like a gas furnace. The guys are maybe just starting to move around on the other side of the door, the windows still dark with the rain and the hour.

Barnes’ hand is warm and broad, his thumb hooked into the band of Steve’s drawers and Steve’s undershirt riding up just a little. Steve’s half hard despite himself, because any other morning, Barnes would be the one waking him up, kissing Steve molasses slow and fingering him open where he’s still slick and sore from the night before. Barnes’ hands are callused smooth on his fingers and rough on his palms, sometimes catching on Steve’s undershirt when he pushes it up and making his skin buzz when he runs one big palm down Steve’s back and thighs.

When it’s just them, when the guys aren’t around, Barnes kisses like Sunday morning before church, like he intends to make the confession worth every Ave, and Steve enjoys it more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Laying on his belly like this, it’s easy to want things to be back to normal, when Barnes would roll into him and cover Steve with his weight, fucking him slow and easy until he had Steve twisting and desperate for it. Because Barnes was the first person who cared whether Steve got off from it too, because Barnes was the first person who wanted him to want it, because Barnes—

Barnes sighs in his sleep and curls tighter against Steve, turning his face down to nose against Steve’s hair.

Steve wonders sometimes, if this is what Barnes was like before, or if this is how he’d be in Brooklyn if they—if he was easier, before, without the hard front he puts up for the guys. Bucky’s not—Bucky’s not really a name for the hard man who makes sure they don’t bring back prisoners for the SSR to interrogate, who won’t breathe a word about what happened Azzano. But it does seem like a name for the guy in the photo Barnes showed Steve that first night, the one with his family before he shipped out, the one with the crooked smile that Steve’s only seen in person when Barnes decides to turn on the charm.

It doesn’t quite line up, Barnes the guy he is and Bucky the guy he’d been in Brooklyn. Steve remembers thinking it the first time Barnes told him to call him by his first name, Steve draped across his chest. They’d been in the field, Steve fucked boneless and Barnes’s stubble rubbing him raw where he kissed up and down Steve’s neck. Steve couldn’t quite see it then.

But he can almost see it when Barnes sighs in his sleep like that, solid and warm, or when Barnes smiles at him sideways—

Barnes makes a contented sound as he wakes up, stretching against Steve so Steve can feel all the dense muscle of him and his cock stiffening against Steve’s thigh. It’s—nice, or—it would be any other morning. Barnes hums a smile and tucks Steve closer into his side as he comes fully awake, squeezing his ass just a little, hooking his thumb more into the band of Steve’s drawers so that he can drag his thumb back and forth. It sends little shivers up and down Steve’s back and thighs despite himself.

Barnes brushes his lips against Steve’s temple, almost tentative for all that he’s got his hand on Steve’s ass, practically fingering him open already. Steve tips his face up to kiss because—it is nice. It’s nice, with the rain, and the warm bed that only smells a little like damp wool and gun oil. It’s nice, feeling Barnes smile against his mouth before kissing him, slow and easy. Barnes kisses like he’s making up for lost time, warm and overwhelming. It’s nice, if Steve doesn’t think about the rest of it.

Steve rolls his hips into it when Barnes smoothes a big hand over his ass and brushes fingertips down over his balls, Steve’ cock fully hard now where it’s pressed between his belly and the mattress. Barnes kisses down Steve’s neck, nipping at the juncture of his shoulder.

It’s easy, to just let it be nice, and not think about the rest of it. Barnes nudges him to roll over, tugging Steve’s shirt up so he can kiss down Steve’s chest, stroking Steve’s cock harder through his drawers. Barnes props himself on one elbow to kiss down Steve’s belly, lazy and sure like they have all the time in the world, pushing Steve’s drawers off him.

His mouth is hot and obscene when he catches the tip of Steve’s cock, just teasing while he keeps Steve in place with one hand on his hip. Between the rain and Barnes’ mouth Steve hasn’t got a thought in his head, letting himself be lulled into warm complacency as Barnes brushes lips across his thigh because it’s nice, because Steve wants so badly for things to be back to normal.

“Where’s your grease?” Barnes murmurs against Steve’s hip, stubble scraping across his skin.

Steve freezes between one breath and the next; he knows exactly what Barnes means to do, because even if Barnes likes sucking cock, he still wants the reassurance that Steve’s the one who gets fucked in the ass and likes it, even if it’s just a couple of fingers while Barnes blows him. Easier for Barnes to tell himself that they’re nothing alike that way, that he’s not a—that Steve’s the only one who likes it.

Barnes looks up at him when he hesitates too long, and Steve’s mother always said his face was too honest for his own good. Barnes sees right through him in a heartbeat, sitting up like he’s been scalded. Steve sits up too, drawing his knees up to his chest before he thinks better of it, Barnes’ face going dark as he watches Steve put distance between them.

“So you only want your cock sucked,” Barnes says, flat.

Steve swallows and sets his chin, making himself look Barnes in the eye with his shoulders squared, because what else has he got but his pride. It’s Steve’s job to not say no, and they both know how it’ll go for Steve with the guys without Barnes’ patience. “It's on the footlocker,” Steve says, his back taut like he’s walking into a fight.

Barnes makes a low sound in the back of his throat, rolling off the bed like a predator. He scoops his trousers up off the floor without looking at Steve, yanking his shirt on like he means to rip a sleeve off. It’s not fair, the way his moods change whiplash fast even when Steve says what he wants.

“I can blow you—” Steve says, reaching after him, because no one ever said good sense was one of Steve’s strong suits.

Barnes rounds on him, and Steve jerks back because he does have some sense after all. Barnes’ jaw is tight and Steve can see him deciding what to say, bracing for Barnes to call him a useless whore or worse.

It was a nice morning.

“I’m not fucking you if it’s a—goddamn— _obligation_ ,” Barnes says, running a hand through his hair like he does when he’s avoiding something. “Not if you’re fucking— _negotiating_ to not—”

“This isn't _fair_ ,” Steve says, and Barnes goes rigid. It’s not fair, that Barnes can see through him like this, push and push and demand that Steve not only go along with it because it’s his job but pretend to like it too. “You said I could think about it, this isn't fair.”

“Christ, Steve, I _know_ that,” Barnes says. He turns away and yanks the door open just far enough for Steve to catch Monty’s look of alarm and followed by his disgust and pity. Then Barnes yanks the door closed and Steve’s left alone in the NCO’s billet, naked in Barnes’ bed.

There’s the sound of the guys fluttering around Barnes as he leaves, and the sound of one of them going after him.

Dugan, probably.

* * *

Monty and Gabe walk to either side of Steve on their way to breakfast, like he’s a prisoner who needs escorting or he’s on his way to quarantine so he doesn’t give anyone else what he gave Barnes. Nobody says anything, collars flipped up against the rain, and Steve has to half jog to keep up, hands stuffed in the pockets of Barnes’ old coat and head down.

Mess stinks like wet wool and Steve’s stomach roils with the acid coffee, nobody saying much except to pass the salt and exchange looks over Steve’s head. Monty and Gabe sit across from and next to him to bracket Steve in, Steve shoved up against the cold wall.

Barnes and Dugan find them after a while, both of them pulling damp SSR mimeographs out of their coat pockets to spread across the table. Barnes has gotten a shave, his rough beard gone so he looks even sharper, more hollowed out. He’s combed his hair neat despite the rain and he doesn’t once look at Steve. He looks like he stepped out of the movies, cold and distant.

Some of the mimeographs are in Steve’s handwriting, but no one says anything to him, talking over his head about more important things. Steve slouches further in his seat and wishes he could disappear into his oatmeal.

It was a nice morning.

Steve makes his to-do list in his head while the guys talk over him, drawing circles in his oatmeal. If he dawdles enough getting the laundry and gets lunch and supper on his own, he won’t have to come back until well after dark, and maybe the guys will all be asleep by then. If he dawdles enough in the rain, he might catch a cough and they’ll really leave him behind this time.

“Rogers,” Barnes says, like it isn’t the first time, and Steve looks up to all the guys looking at him, Barnes snapping his fingers for Steve to hurry up. “You’re with me in SSR, Stark wants you,” Barnes says.

Dugan looks sour and mutters something under his breath to Morita. All Steve catches is _pussy whipped_.

“I said _knock it off_ ,” Barnes snaps at them, Dugan and Morita and Dernier exchanging looks. They don’t say anything, but Steve downs the last of his coffee with Barnes standing there impatient.

Barnes doesn’t make him run to catch up, though, waiting at the door out of mess and pulling out an umbrella to share like Steve’s his girl, right in front of all the guys. Not that Barnes hasn’t put hands all over Steve in front of the guys and all of camp before, but this is— _gentlemanly_ , and Barnes isn’t—shouldn’t be a gentleman, or kind, or whatever this is, to an auxiliary, just like he’d never kiss Steve in public, not even in front of the guys, because it does look—whipped. Like Steve’s doing this on purpose, not putting out and making demands.

Barnes gives him a sidelong look and Steve sticks his hands in his pockets as they walk, because what else is he supposed to do.

Camp’s buzzing by this time of morning despite the rain and so are the streets once they make for the SSR offices, and Steve keeps his eyes on his shoes and leans out in the rain when Barnes moves to put a possessive hand on his shoulder. Because it isn’t fair, that Barnes pushed and pushed until Steve had to say yes and then got sore at Steve for saying yes and then tried to make up for it like this.

But it wasn’t ever supposed to be fair in the first place, and Steve figures that’s what’s got Dugan and Morita and Dernier so bent out of shape, that Steve’s no better than he ought to be and making Barnes stupid besides.

Barnes shakes off the umbrella and folds it away in the overhang of the SSR building, keeping himself carefully out of Steve’s space as they make their way back to Stark’s labs and Phillips’ offices in the bowels of the building.

At the door to the labs, Barnes hesitates with his hand on the doorknob, giving Steve a long look. Steve lifts his chin and looks back, because he’s tried and he’s tried and it’s not his job to tell Barnes how to fuck him and what to think about it. It’s Steve’s job to let Barnes fuck him however he wants and act like he likes it no matter how Steve feels about it.

“Look, about this morning, I didn’t—” Barnes starts, and stops, mouth twisting around as he glances at the floor.

“Didn’t what,” Steve says. He sounds sullen and he knows it but he hasn’t got it in him to sound grateful or whatever it is Barnes wants, because it’s not fair, Barnes putting him in this position where he can’t win no matter what he does. Step one way and Barnes is sore with him, step the other way and the guys are even more sore with him, it’s the poker game all over again and Steve should have known it then.

“ _Christ_ , Steve, I’m not going to fuck you if—” Barnes starts.

“Steve, my friend! I was about to send out a search party,” Stark calls behind them, coming at them down the hallway like somebody out of the movies for all that he’s near as short as Steve. He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, grinning at Barnes, who looks like his mouth is full of ashes. “Thought you’d let these apes sully your virtue again,” Stark says, pulling Steve away from Barnes with a shake. Steve gets half a glance at Barnes looking after them sourly before Stark starts interrogating him a mile a minute about his last set of drawings.

The couple of times Stark’s fucked Steve, he’s been nice enough about it; fast, polite, and always gives Steve near a week’s wages in tip, enough to make Steve so uncomfortable he’s never mentioned it to Barnes or the guys but not enough to not take the tip. The guys don’t like Stark because he’s too swell, and he is too swell, but he’s not so bad, immigrant parents like Steve’s, just he made good. Which, yeah, Steve gets tired of hearing about just how good Stark made it, but sometimes he talks about something other than himself.

Helps that he doesn’t talk when he fucks like he does every other minute of the day, just a hello and a thank you, then has his man Jarvis drive Steve back to camp. He’s not so bad.

For one thing, he talks to Steve like Stark hasn’t fucked him, joking around about the quality of the cigarettes and demanding Steve explain how something works for the fourth time like Steve has any more idea what Hydra’s up to than Stark does.

Pride’s a sin, but Stark doesn’t act like the big mimeographs of Steve’s drawings are just another load of laundry, like they’re just something the Army provides as a matter of course, even if Steve knows Stark doesn’t really mean it when he says he’ll hire Steve as an engineering draftsman after the war.

“And anyway, you know what they say about the differences between soldiers and engineers,” Stark says, rolling out another enlarged mimeograph of one of Steve’s sketches alongside Stark’s schematics for a prototype of the thing.

“No?” Steve says. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Barnes across the room, talking to someone.

“Soldiers only kill one person at a time,” Stark says. Across the room, Barnes puts a hand against the wall to box Private Lorraine in, leaning in to smile at her.

Barnes says something and she laughs, touching her collar, then Barnes ducks his head to look her in the eye, says something sly. Steve watches him smile, that easy, confident smile like he knows he’ll always get what he wants, turning on the charm because it suits him right then. She’s gorgeous, her blonde hair done in perfect neat waves, her body tipped towards him as Barnes flirts with her. He’s got the charm turned all the way up, his head tipped and his eyes hooded as he looks her up and down.

Seducing her, like he never bothered seducing Steve.

Who would need to, anyway.

Steve’s stomach twists over itself, the flash of hot nausea drowning out the rest of Stark’s joke, Steve’s petty, ridiculous jealousy bitter in his mouth. Barnes laughs at something she says, easy and relaxed.

Barnes catches sight of Steve watching across the room, and for just a second their eyes meet, Stark’s hand on Steve’s shoulder and Barnes leaning into Private Lorraine, and Barnes’ face goes dark. Steve swallows and almost looks away, but then Private Lorraine says something else, catching Barnes’ attention again. Barnes’ mouth tightens for just a second, and then he turns to her like a spotlight, Steve left out in the dark.

He puts the charm back on like a coat, like nothing happened, turning his full attention on her like he hasn’t got a thought in the world for Steve.

“Engineers are much more efficient,” Stark says, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon, Rogers, let’s go look at some prototypes. Somewhere else.” Stark tugs him out of there, one hand on Steve’s elbow while Steve stumbles after him with burning cheeks.

* * *

Barnes disappears from the SSR before Stark’s done with Steve. Stark’s man Jarvis walks Steve back to camp so he doesn’t get picked up as an unsupervised public health hazard by the MPs, holding the umbrella against the drizzle. By the time Steve jogs across camp to get the guys’ laundry, it’s near enough the end of supper call that Steve would think about skipping supper if they weren’t due to hike out with no breakfast come morning.

As it is, Steve gets his tray and stiffens when Monty and Gabe and the guys catch sight of him looking for somewhere to sit. Monty waves at him and shoves over to make room, and Steve can’t help hesitating. Barnes is nowhere to be seen, and Steve’s stomach twists over the choice whether to sit with them and wait for the other shoe to drop, or let them see him turn up his nose and wait for the other shoe to drop on the hike out.

Steve goes to them, the least bad option he has. Out of all of them, Monty and Gabe have been the most decent to him, and Steve doesn’t need all of them sore at him. Monty gives him a thin smile and pats him on the shoulder as he sits, but doesn’t say anything to him, the guys talking past Steve like usual. Steve can feel Dugan eyeing him sideways, but he’s at the other end of the table and doesn’t say anything.

Then they’re done with supper and there’s nothing left to do but pack up bags and equipment and wait for Barnes. The guys are unhurried, moving around Steve in the barracks like he’s not there, until they’re done and he can feel attention shifting onto him in Barnes’ absence. Nobody’s fucked him in weeks and none of them have had leave to go to the London prostations; Steve can practically hear them thinking it over, looking between each other the longer Barnes is gone.

It’s not that he’s scared of them, exactly. More that he doesn’t trust any of them to be particularly nice about it, or Dugan especially to not use it to show everyone Steve’s no better than he ought to be. It won’t hurt—they’re not those kind of guys—but it will be humiliating, even if Monty or Gabe try to be nice about it. Maybe even more if they try to be nice about it.  
  
So Steve makes a tactical retreat to the bare safety of the NCO's billet while he still has it. He won't be able to avoid it when they're in the field, if they've decided they're done ignoring him. But maybe the guys won’t think Steve’s acting too big for his boots once Barnes deigns to fuck him again.  
  
Steve hangs up his damp coat on the wall and fishes his fifth of whiskey out from where it’s still hidden in his pocket, just to numb his frayed nerves. He can do what Barnes wants because that's his job, and so what if it bruises his pride.

Pride’s a sin, and what’s Steve got to be prideful over anyway.

He’s got goosebumps by the time his clothes are folded neatly on Barnes’ footlocker, but another pull of whiskey helps with that. Steve always knew he was never much to look at, spindly legs and joints swollen up too big, pigeon-chested and hook-nosed, but he feels it even more now with the goosebumps, pushing his drawers down to slick himself up.

He picks a spot on the wall while he works himself open, two knuckles deep, so he can concentrate on that and not the sound of Barnes coming back to the barracks for the night. Tries to make himself relax instead of listening to Barnes saying something, too low to hear.

It’s not fair, but it was never supposed to be fair.

There’s the low sound of the guys talking over each other as Steve pulls his drawers up, feeling jittery and nervous as the first time the guys all wanted to fuck him in the showers in front of each other. One guy alone is never so bad, but a guy performing for his buddies is as bad as every guy in the room put together.

Steve takes another pull of the whiskey to steady himself, because the guys have never hurt him, but they do have something to prove. He waits with his hands between his knees, taking nips from the bottle to stave off goosebumps while he listens to Barnes and the guys in the other room. If they’re playing cards or making plans for the morning, Barnes will be an hour or more, Steve waiting with the vaseline sticking his drawers to his thighs.

It’s a half hour, maybe, or forty-five minutes, Steve’s hands going tight around the bottle every time he hears the sound of boots coming towards the door. He makes himself relax every time it’s not Barnes, just one of the guys moving around or going out to take a piss.

Then the doorknob’s turning in the latch, and Steve’s got just enough time for one last pull of whiskey before tucking it away, on his feet by the time Barnes opens the door.

Barnes closes the door, looking Steve up and down, and just the weight of his look makes the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand up. Barnes slings his damp coat over the chair and Steve makes himself step into Barnes’ space, feeling colder than ever for the warmth radiating through Barnes’ shirt.

“Steve,” Barnes says, putting one cold, callused hand on Steve’s waist.

“How do you want me, Sarge?” Steve makes himself say, and it comes out near right.

“What are you doing,” Barnes says. It’s not a question, because Barnes knows exactly what Steve’s doing in his drawers unbuttoning Barnes’ shirt.

“You wanted to fuck me,” Steve says to Barnes’ buttons.

“You’ve been drinking,” Barnes says, sighting the near empty fifth of whiskey tucked in with Steve’s clothes.

“I’m not drunk,” Steve says.

“Steve,” Barnes says, and catches both of Steve’s wrists in his big hands, pulling Steve’s hands away from his buttons. “You don’t want to fuck the last three days running and all the sudden you’re jumping on my dick like you got something to prove, I think I got a right to know why. Especially if you got to liquor up to do it.”

Steve looks Barnes in the eye, trying to keep the resentment out of his face. He feels smaller than ever like this, Barnes holding his wrists with Steve in his drawers and Barnes still dressed down to his boots. It’s too vulnerable, even if Steve’s only got himself to blame for ending up here.

Steve shrugs tightly. “I know you wouldn’t fuck me if—” — _you had other options, we were in Brooklyn,_ _the Army sent anyone else_ — “—if—”

“This about Lorraine?” Barnes says, letting go of Steve’s wrists suddenly. “Or this morning?”

“I wasn’t—trying to watch,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest before he thinks better of it, because yeah, maybe it is about Private Lorraine and this morning both. Barnes isn’t queer and Steve’s not his girl, so Steve’s got no right to his stupid, petty jealousy and they both know it.

Barnes sits on the bed heavily, combing fingers through his hair. Steve’s arms prickle with goosebumps and he makes himself not shiver, standing there near naked in front of Barnes, like it’s an inspection, like Steve’s had anything to be bashful about since he joined the Army. “I’m not a good man, Steve,” Barnes says finally. “I was—angry about this morning, and I wanted to flirt with someone who’s not scared of me. That’s all.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Steve says. He lifts his chin, looking Barnes in the eye as his heartbeat kicks up.

“Then why are you in your drawers trying to get in my pants when you don’t want to fuck,” Barnes says flatly.

Steve looks away and shrugs tightly. They both know why.

Barnes leans forward elbows on knees, combing fingers through his hair repeatedly. It’s not neat anymore and he just makes it worse trying to put it back in place. “Steve, I’m not gonna fuck you if you—I’m not going to fuck you unless you actually want to.”

Steve tightens his arms across his chest, goosebumps chasing over his arms and legs. The fucking’s fine, it’s—all the rest he never wanted. “Do you try?” Steve says. “To be a good person.”

Barnes laughs at that, tired and short, hanging his head for a second before he looks back up at Steve. “No. Sometimes. You should’ve been a priest.”

“I didn’t have the grades for seminary,” Steve says, closing the space between them to put a knee on the mattress beside Barnes. Barnes looks him up and down, licking his lips as his eyes settle on Steve’s mouth.

Steve touches Barnes’ collar, then leans in to kiss him.

Barnes takes a sharp breath, hands coming up to hover at Steve’s waist, letting Steve kiss him but not touching him. Steve straddles him, swinging his other knee up onto the mattress so he’s in Barnes’ lap, hanging onto his shirt collar.

“Steve,” Barnes says, finally putting hands on Steve to push him away, infuriatingly gentle with his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “We don’t have to fuck. I told the guys to lay off, you don’t have to sleep with me for—whatever this is. Or I can sleep out there.”

“Would you—try, if I asked you to?” Steve says.

Barnes blows out a soft breath, smoothing big hands down over Steve’s goosebumped arms and chest to rest on his thighs. He leans his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, his breath warm. “When do you think sometimes is?” he says.

Steve licks his lips. It was a nice morning. “I need more than sometimes,” he says finally.

“I know,” Barnes says.

“Can I be on top?” Steve asks, fiddling with the hem of Barnes’ shirt.

Barnes leans back to look at him again, searching for something in Steve’s face. He brushes Steve’s hair out of his eyes, fingertips warm and callused. Barnes licks his lips, once, looking like he’s going to say something, and Steve waits for him.

“Sure,” he says finally, hand on Steve’s thigh tightening. “Sure, just don’t—” Barnes looks away and swallows. “Just don’t put my hands above my head, don’t pin me down,” he says, and his voice catches a little on the last part.

Steve nods, smoothing his hands over Barnes’ shoulders, because this is the most he’s ever said about Azzano, even if he’s not saying it. Steve’s not stupid, he put together that the guys only know each other because they were all tortured at Azzano and Barnes worst of all, but none of them will ever say anything to him about it because he’s there to take their minds off it. Barnes looks like he would rather die than say another word about it.

Steve freezes when Barnes catches one of his wrists, stilling his hand where it rests on Barnes’ collarbone, Steve’s thumb in the hollow of his throat. “Don’t put your hands on my throat either,” Barnes says, sounding sick.

Steve doesn’t have anything to say to that, but he leans in to kiss and this time Barnes moves with him, kissing like a drowning man, desperate and pulling Steve under with him. His hand tightens on Steve’s wrist, his other hand coming up to wrap around Steve’s waist and pull him closer.

Barnes has a five o’clock shadow despite his shave that morning, his stubble already sharp, but he makes up for it by not pushing. His pulse is quick under Steve’s palm where he’s still holding Steve’s hand against his throat, and he makes a soft noise against Steve’s mouth when Steve finally pulls away to finish undoing Barnes’ buttons. Barnes lets him this time, turning his face into Steve’s neck and running both hands down Steve’s goosebumped sides.

The rain starts to pick up outside, a steady beat that covers the noise of the guys in the other room. Steve concentrates on pushing Barnes’ shirt off him, and the way Barnes’ breath catches as Steve starts to pull his undershirt up, like he’s the one ought to be shy of Steve.

He radiates heat like a furnace once Steve pulls his shirt off, the heat and smell of him feverish against Steve’s skin. He tips his face up as Steve stretches to pull his shirt off, the full intensity of his wild eyed look all on Steve, like being pinned under a spotlight, like Steve’s the point around which he orbits.

It’s too much. Barnes must feel it too, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder again, kissing like he means to leave marks to make up for lost time. Steve’s neck will be burned raw with stubble by the time they’re done, but it feels good, it feels like normal, like that morning should have been.

Steve undoes his buttons with steady hands, because there’s no slowing down now. Barnes hauls Steve up the bed one armed as he shoves out of his trousers with the other, pushing them up the bed still kissing like Steve weighs nothing. His mouth is hot and insistent as the rest of him as he worries at the band of Steve’s drawers, suddenly tentative even with his cock rubbing against Steve’s belly.

Steve lets Barnes kiss down his chest and push his drawers off him, too gentle by half for all that Steve expects to get laid out and covered with Barnes’ weight. But Barnes settles Steve back in his lap, making a wounded noise against Steve’s throat when he realizes Steve’s not hard.

“’S just cold. And the whiskey,” Steve says when Barnes tries to pull away. Barnes tugs the blanket up, one big hand on Steve’s thigh keeping him steady while Barnes arranges them against the headboard with the blanket pulled up around Steve’s thighs.

Barnes licks his lips, looking Steve up and down again like he’s suddenly uncertain even with his thumb stroking the inside of Steve’s thigh and his cock hard against Steve’s belly. Steve kisses him inexpertly, teeth clicking as Steve rearranges them so he can grind down on Barnes’ cock, slick where Steve got himself ready. Barnes takes over at that and finally puts a hand on Steve’s ass to set the pace, rolling Steve into him as he teases the inside of Steve’s thigh. Barnes is a terrible tease when he wants to be, just grazing the base of Steve’s cock with his thumb and scraping his nail along the inside of Steve’s knee.

His hands are as steady and slow as his mouth is insistent and Steve feels caught in the undertow of him, pulled off his feet and out of his depth even though he started this. It’s the whiskey but it isn’t and Steve doesn’t have the good sense to to be scared of it.

Barnes slides fingers along Steve’s ass where he’s greased up and Steve pushes back into his hand, turning his face into Barnes’ neck because this is what does it for him, feeling Barnes’ cock jerk against his thigh as Steve fucks himself on his fingers.

Steve makes himself not think about the rest of it, his cock thickening against Barnes’ belly as Barnes curses softly against his hair, fingering Steve open. Even if Barnes never bothered seducing Steve, Barnes still wants him like nobody else besides Carter, and Steve hides his hot face against Barnes’ shoulder because he shouldn’t be hard imagining what she’d think if she saw him like this.

Barnes hisses when Steve opens his mouth to pant against Barnes’ shoulder, and Barnes shudders when Steve grazes teeth across his skin like Barnes does to him. Steve sucks a dark mark on Barnes’ throat and then another, because if they’re doing this, with Barnes’ possessive jealousy and rubbing Steve’s neck raw so the guys will be sure to know Steve’s his, then fair’s fair, Barnes is Steve’s too, petty as it makes him.

When Steve finally lifts himself up and reaches around to steady Barnes’ cock, Barnes turns the spotlight look on him again, eyes wide and lips parted like he’s going to say something. But the breath goes out of him when Steve sinks down on his cock, Barnes squeezing his eyes shut before he wraps arms around Steve’s waist and pulls him close, Barnes’ cheek on Steve’s chest as Steve works himself down.

It’s been a while since anyone’s fucked Steve, the longest, probably, since he joined the service, and if it doesn’t exactly hurt as much as it did the first time, Steve’s knees shake like it’s his first time, unused to the pressure and stretch after just a couple of weeks. Barnes breathes shallowly against his chest, one hand wrapped around Steve’s thigh and one arm around his chest to keep him steady until Steve’s all the way down.

And then Barnes holds him there, face turned into Steve’s neck and hands heavy when Steve tries to push himself back up to fuck. For a second Steve thinks Barnes might cry, like the time Barnes took him out away from the others, but then the moment’s gone, Barnes licking his hand to wrap around Steve’s cock.

Steve shudders in his lap, feeling himself tighten around Barnes’ cock, strung tight as Barnes strokes him and circles the pad of his thumb over the tip of Steve’s cock. Barnes turns his face up to kiss, mouth as desperate as his hands are slow and Steve rocks restlessly against him, trying to get Barnes to fuck him. But Barnes is immovable, stroking Steve slow and relentless as he puts a hand on the back of Steve’s neck to keep him in place.

Barnes kisses like he did that morning, wicked and easy as Steve tries to rock into his hand and onto his cock. He feels too big like this, thick and hot as Steve tries to relax around him while Barnes strokes him slow enough for it to hardly count as a sin. Steve shivers, hot now as he was cold, feeling strung tight under Barnes’ hands. He tilts his head to nip Barnes’ lip and Barnes jerks under his hands, drawing a sharp breath against Steve’s mouth. His hand tightens on the back of Steve’s neck, making Steve arch his back as Barnes fucks his mouth, catching Steve’s lip in his teeth before breaking away.

“Steve, I—” Barnes hisses against Steve’s hair.

Steve comes into Barnes’ hand, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound. He feels like white static, hot and cold where he’s pressed against Barnes, his whole body prickling electric under Barnes’ hands. Barnes rocks into him, pulling Steve’s face up to kiss, and Steve lets him, dreamy slow as Barnes kisses him. It’s nice, like that morning was supposed to be, and Steve wants to hide in that feeling forever.

Steve feels it before Barnes makes a sound, Barnes’ cock throbbing in him hot and thick as he comes, Barnes kissing him through it with a soft sound. It’s almost too much, Steve shuddering every time Barnes runs fingers down his back or his cock jerks in Steve’s ass, still hard as Steve twists and shivers in his lap. Steve can feel every inch of him, over sensitive on his thick cock and shuddering with every tiny movement.

Barnes finally takes mercy and eases Steve down to the mattress, looking still hard enough to go again even though he leans down to kiss gentle. He nudges Steve over onto his side, and Steve half thinks he means to, making up for the past few weeks with the way he pulls Steve’s ass back against his hard cock to spoon and wraps arms around his chest. But he doesn’t do anything but pet Steve’s chest and hair, still absurdly gentle.

“Fuck, Steve,” Barnes sighs, wrapping around him too tight, like he’s afraid Steve’s going to disappear on him. He’s suffocatingly hot to touch, but the alternative is going out to sleep alone in the cold with they guys, so Steve stays where he is.

* * *

In the morning, Barnes shaves in the tiny mirror on the wall while Steve packs his bag and Barnes’. He cocks an eye at Steve when he notices the hickies, giving him a long look like he’s thinking if over, but Steve holds his look and Barnes doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do they guys when they all trundle out to the airfield and Barnes settles himself squarely next to Steve on the plane. Like the first night, when Steve had no idea how it would go, dependent on Barnes’ good graces to set the tone.

Because the hike out is—normal. Disconcertingly normal. If Steve’s relieved that Monty and Jones joke around with him and Morita says two words together to him, all it does is underline how tenuous his place on the squad has always been.

It’s not like Steve didn’t know, or like it wasn’t like that before, it just—wasn’t so unavoidably obvious, is all.

Even more so when the guys finally decide they want to fuck him again. Steve’s packing up supper when Dernier, of all people, sidles up with raised eyebrows.

“Veux enculer?” Dernier says, cocking his head at Steve’s tent.

But then he cuts a glance at Barnes and Steve follows his look. Barnes raises his eyebrows where he’s cleaning his gun on the other side of the fire; he looks Steve up and down for a second, but shrugs at Dernier. Steve stands and doesn’t look to see what the other guys think. Doesn’t matter.

Dernier’s polite, but he’s always polite, and so’s Monty after him. It’s the waiting after them that wears on Steve’s nerves, expecting Gabe or Morita at every sound of boots, bracing for Dugan or Barnes.

But Barnes, when he finally ghosts out of the darkness, just lies down with Steve and envelopes him, nose against his hair.

* * *

Steve’s curled in a little ball when he wakes up, his back cold where Barnes is gone on pre-dawn scout, and more’s the pity because the icy drizzle has started up again. Steve pulls on a spare pair of socks and his boots lying on his back, keeping half an ear out for the guys waking up as he laces his boots with one foot in the air.

Morita’s on watch when Steve gets his rain slick on and starts coffee, Dernier and Dugan snoring softly despite the rain. Coffee’s slow going; the Coleman sputters in the damp and Monty’s jerry rigged repair of the burner means that Steve has to hold the kettle so it doesn’t slip off.

He’s balanced on the balls of his feet with one arm stuck out of his rain slick when the guys finally roll to their feet and start breaking camp, but the water’s hardly tepid by the time they’re done and just waiting around for coffee or Barnes and Jones. Morita and Monty crouch in a slightly less damp overhang of branches, trying to shield their cigarettes from the damp, but Dugan and Dernier watch the coffee pot skeptically, cups in hand.

“Christ, Rogers,” Dugan says, “you’ve blown the whole squad in less time than this, what’s the fucking hold up?”

“It’s raining,” Steve says. Coleman’s gone out twice and looks to want to do it again, Steve trying to shield it from the stuttering wind with his coat. As though anybody wanted coffee more than him, back cramping from the cold rain and sleeping under Barnes’ feverish weight.

“You milk that job any longer and Barnes is gonna figure out why he isn’t getting any,” Dugan says, nudging Steve in the thigh with his boot, almost putting him off balance.

“You wanna trade jobs, Dugan?” Steve snaps. “Because I know I shoot better than you make coffee.”

“Yeah, but do you shoot better than you suck cock, because it sounds like you forgot what good your pretty mouth is,” Dugan says, taking a step towards Steve. Steve stands, rag still in his hand from holding the coffee. Steve’s stood up to bigger guys than Dugan. Got his ass kicked by bigger guys than Dugan too, but standing up to them in the first place is what matters.

“Leave off, Dugan,” Monty says, unfolding to his full height to come stand next to Steve.

“What, you pussy whipped now too, Monty?” Dugan sneers.

“Better whipped than a boor,” Monty says archly. “The sergeant’s already told you twice to mind your manners.”

“The _sergeant’s_ a hen-pecked mess who’s letting his dick do his thinking,” Dugan says, stepping up to Monty so they’re chest to chest, Steve shoved off to the side.

“Guys,” Morita snaps, standing, and Monty, Dugan and Steve follow his look.

“Hey,” Barnes calls, jogging towards them with Jones at his heels. “If you ladies are done swinging your limp dicks around, we got squids coming for dinner and a show. Put on your lipstick before they bend us over, we don’t got time for vaseline.”

And just like that, Dugan and Monty drop it, scattering with the rest of the guys to grab their gear. Steve turns off the Coleman and pours out the coffee, kicking leaves over it as the guys boil around him, and thank God they were already packed to move out.

“Dugan, you take flank, Rogers, you're my spot,” Barnes says, keeping half an eye on the way they came, watching the trees for movement.

“Sarge, you really think that's a good idea—?” Jones says, and that cuts more than Steve’s willing to admit. Steve keeps his head down and gets the stove and coffee pot stowed, Monty trading Steve the heavy kitchen pack for Steve’s lighter halfweight pack. The guys have got packs on and guns out by the time Steve gets his pack shouldered on, visible proof of how he slows them down.

“You think it's a good idea to dicker while we got squids crawling up our asses? Get a fucking move on,” Barnes snaps.

They move out in pairs, Monty and Morita, Jones and Dernier, with Dugan fading out into the trees the opposite direction, moving quieter than a man his size has any right to. That leaves Steve to follow Barnes, the rain near deafening in the trees.

Barnes settles them on a ridge overlooking where they’d been camped, and it’s only not muddy because it’s too rocky. Steve lays on his belly next to Barnes and Barnes nods at a further patch of trees as Steve brings the binoculars out and Barnes settles in with his rifle.

Barnes leans over and pecks Steve on the cheek, absurdly chaste. “For luck,” Barnes says when Steve glances at him, Barnes loading his rifle.

They’ve done this, in camp, when Barnes taught them all to spot for him and wouldn’t let up until even Steve could mark out wind speed and distance, but Dugan’s his man in the field. Steve watches where Barnes pointed him, breathing shallow to keep the binoculars steady. Steve’ll need all the luck he can get; even with the binoculars he can’t see much.

The Germans roll into the clearing, more of them than Steve expected from the sound of them, deadened by rain. There’s eight of them, fanned through the forest and they’re clearly looking for something even before they make the hastily cleared camp. Barnes gestures at Steve and marks up the one in the lead, and Steve carefully measures and breathes the distance and windspeed to Barnes.

Barnes nods and takes sight, watching through the scope just as, so far as Steve can see, all hell breaks loose.

One of the Germans sees something first, firing off a shot at what must be Morita or Monty, and behind them one of the Germans’ nightmare guns and another, a tree disappearing in a flash of blue. Morita or Monty goes down in the underbrush, whether from the shot or of his own accord Steve can’t tell, Barnes pulling the trigger.

Steve doesn’t look away in time when Barnes makes the shot, Steve’s breath catching in his throat as he fumbles the binoculars. The German soldier crumples to his knees, and then he’s lost in the underbrush too, along with more trees in flashes of blue as the squad of reinforcements comes up behind their scouts.

“You never killed anyone before,” Barnes says, looking at Steve sideways as he reloads. Barnes is looking away, then, as one of the Germans sight them, the nightmare guns coming to bear on them just as Barnes turns to follow Steve’s look.

Steve moves without thinking, throwing his weight against Barnes to tumble them sideways and the wet leaves sizzle with ozone where they were. Barnes lands heavily with Steve on top of him, the air gone out of him even as he wraps an arm around Steve’s chest and twists, throwing them down the ridge and Steve under him just as Steve registers the dull sound of a mortar hitting mud.

Steve feels more than hears the explosion, his ears ringing despite Barnes’ heavy weight curled over him, Barnes shuddering as he’s hit with clods of mud. Another mortar explodes further off along with the shrill pops of trees disappearing.

“C’mon, we gotta get out of here,” Barnes says, hauling Steve up. He’s no sooner got his rifle over his shoulder than his knee gives out of him, Steve catching him badly. Barnes wasn’t hit with mud, he was hit with shrapnel, blood soaking his trousers under his rain slick.

Steve shoulders his weight, more worried that Barnes lets him as they inch away in the rain. The sound of gunfire and the Germans bounces under the rain, making it sound like they’re everywhere.

“You okay?” Barnes asks, leaning on Steve heavily as they hobble through the dripping underbrush. Steve flinches at the sound of mortar fire, but Barnes just scans ahead and behind them, steady like he isn’t bleeding to death.

“Yeah. Aces,” Steve says.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know,” Barnes laughs, but it turns into a cough. He muffles it in his sleeve cuff, and it comes away bloody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the chapter count went up again. I keep thinking next chapter is going to be the threesome chapter and it keeps taking longer to get there (Zeno's paradox of porn?). I promise I have a plan for where we're going, I just am not good at estimating how long the road trip will be. <3 <3 <3


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted [some 4F tiny!Steve/Thor porn circa 1950](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8493715) separately, if you're into that sort of thing.

The rain lets up near afternoon, thank god, Barnes’ breathing wet and ragged by the time Steve eases him down into the sheltered hollow of a ravine. Barnes tips his head back against the crumbling stone face of it, watching Steve with half lidded eyes as he takes off Barnes’ belt and his own, cutting a couple branches. The snap of wood breaking is painfully loud in the dripping trees with no rain to cover them, even though they lost the sound of the Germans hours ago.

Barnes’ leg is obviously broken below the knee, going by the swelling when Steve slices his pant leg to get a look at it. But the skin’s not broken and it’s not obviously misaligned despite the feverish hot discoloration, as if Steve could do anything about it if it were, so there’s not much to do for it now except tighten both their belts around the branches and Barnes’ swelling leg.

When he’s got Barnes’ leg as set as it’s going to get, Steve strips out of his rain slick and coat, trying to keep it as dry as he can. Then the sweater Barnes’ mother made him, til he’s down to his shirt. All they’ve got is Barnes’ rifle and no packs, both left in their hobble to get out of there.

“Steve,” Barnes says, as Steve strips to his undershirt and takes his knife to his shirt, cutting the hem and ripping down the grain of the fabric. “You don’t gotta do that,” Barnes says, shifting weakly as Steve gives him a look. Steve pulls his sweater and coat back on when he’s got strips for bandages, kneeling next to Barnes to get his rain slick off him and get a look at him.

Barnes has some of his strength back, but not much, hissing as he pulls the collar of the rain slick over his head and leans back against the stone face. His blue jacket is soaked through on the side with blood where he took shrapnel.

“Steve,” Barnes laughs wetly as Steve goes after his coat buttons. “Give it a rest, I'm not gonna die on you.”

“Sure, Sarge, whatever you say.” Steve’s fingers are numb with the icy cold and it’s getting dark fast. If Barnes keeps bleeding out as the temperature drops—Steve doesn’t want to think about it.

“I'm gonna be fine, I've lived through worse.” Steve doesn't say anything, just keeps grimly undoing Barnes’ buttons. “Steve,” Barnes says. “Look at me. I'll be fine.”

He undoes his last button to pull up his shirt and—some of the shrapnel wounds are closed up and shiny pink, like they're a couple weeks healed already. He took shrapnel across his back and side through the rain slick, long, jagged gashes that bled through his shirt, but the little ones are closing already. The rest bleed sluggishly, the skin around them no longer shockingly raw. Steve's military medical training is just enough to know an infected dick from a clean one, but that’s about it.

“That’s—” Steve starts.

“Fuckin’ unnatural,” Barnes finishes for him, pulling his shirt down. He tips his head back against the wet stone face of the ravine, looking Steve up and down. “Hydra wanted a monster on a leash. So they made one.”

At Azzano, he means. Steve can see the outline of it: the guys, tortured at Azzano and Barnes worst of all, trapped there until Hydra made him strong enough to break them all out of it. There’s comics of it in _Stars and Stripes_ ; Steve saw some before he even knew who the Howling Commandoes were. There was the heroic escape, soldiers of all the Allied nations banding together and rescued by an American hero besides. Sergeant Barnes in the comics doesn’t look much like Barnes in real life.

“You’re not a monster,” Steve says quietly, maybe a little too late. Bucky’s no kind of name for a monster, anyway.

“You can't tell Carter or Phillips,” Barnes says. “They'll put me back on a table in a lab, you can't breath a word.”

“Carter wouldn't—”

“Steve,” Barnes says, taking Steve’s wrist. His hands are clammy cold and he’s grey as dishwater even if he’s not bleeding. “You can’t tell Carter. She already knows something happened at Azzano, she’ll put it together if she knows you saw this.”

“I won’t tell Carter,” Steve says after a long minute, Barnes practically sagging back when he says it. How Barnes thinks they’ll miss the bloody, torn up coat, Steve doesn’t know, except that now that he sees it, Barnes and the guys have done this before, the guys dragging in bloody and wounded and Barnes with barely a scratch on him. Of course Carter already knows.

“But monster or not, you need to drink water and let me slow down the bleeding or you’re gonna go into shock,” Steve says.

Barnes grunts and closes his eyes. “Fine, fuss if you’re going to fuss,” he says.

Steve doesn’t say anything to that, but he bullies Barnes into drinking some water from the canteen on his belt. The trees are too quiet now that the rain’s done, just occasional drips when the wind shifts that make Steve feel like he should be looking over his shoulder. His pistol’s still on his belt, for all the good it’ll do them.

Barnes lets him bandage the shrapnel wounds still bleeding, Steve practically climbing into his lap to get arms around Barnes’ chest and tie the strip of shirt around him for lack of adhesive. Barnes winces when Steve helps him sit back after the last one.

“You okay?” Steve says, tying it off to keep it in place.

“‘m fine, just hurts. Nobody ever died of pain.” Barnes says it with his eyes closed and Steve’s thankful for it. Some luck Steve was; Barnes would never have taken his eyes off the Germans if it had been Dugan next to him.

If Barnes thinks it too, he doesn’t say it. Steve cuts branches to shelter them in case it rains again, or in case it does any good for Germans glancing down the ravine, building a little lean-to of damp pine boughs around Barnes. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing, the two of them tucked in their combined rain slicks once Steve makes Barnes lay with his head on Steve’s lap.

They risk frostbite if they’re out overnight with no cover, but they risk walking into enemy troops if they wander in the dark, and Barnes hobbling on a broken leg besides. Barnes gives Steve’s compass a sour look and closes his eyes again when he catches a look at the newsprint photo of Carter Steve cut out to put inside it. They went south of where they’d camped, if the hazy, indistinct position of the sun going down is anything to go by. Steve’s silk handkerchief map isn’t much help either, too large an area to figure out where they are in relation to the emergency rendezvous point.

It’s too dark to move and it’s too dark to agonize over the map, but it’s not too dark for Steve to load his pistol and lay it next to him as Barnes starts to drift in the falling dark.

“You shouldn’t sleep, you might have a concussion,” Steve says quietly. Barnes might have a concussion, but the selfish, scared part of Steve wants him awake because if he’s not, then Steve’s left alone with his guilt in the dark.

“Keep me awake, then,” Barnes grunts. “Tell me a story.”

“About what?” Steve’s got no stories, not about anything besides getting beat up and his mom dying and the jobs he’s been fired from. His back aches and his knees ache and his toes ache numb in the cold, every sound of a deer or rabbit moving in the damp underbrush echoing too loud.

“Art school, why you signed up, your last night before boot, whatever you want,” Barnes says with his eyes still closed.

Steve fiddles with the collar of Barnes’ coat, his fingers near numb in the damp cold. “I don’t know. School was just—school, it was fine.” Full of radicals and queers, a couple of them Steve had thought about kissing, but Barnes doesn’t want to hear about that. Steve casts around for something else, something unobjectionable about his life. “Arnie dragged me out to the Stark Expo my last night—”

“You were at the Expo?” Barnes says, perking up, opening his eyes to look at Steve. “I was there my last night before shipping out, thought it was pretty swell. Til the flying car exploded, at least,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks up at Steve. “Arnie’s the one you write to?”

Steve glances at him and then away. He mentioned Arnie once, maybe twice, months ago, when the guys gave him grief asking if he was writing dirty letters to the progirls back at the station. He didn’t think Barnes had even been listening. “He’s in North Africa with the First Armored,” Steve says, aiming for bland as toast and not sure he kept the jealousy out of his voice.

“He your fellow back home?” Barnes says slowly, like he only just realized he’s been fucking someone who might have a life to go back to. Not that Steve does, but it still stings to know Barnes never thought it before.

Steve blushes, fidgeting to avoid Barnes’ look. “Just a—friend, we—he set me up with his girl’s friend from work.”

Barnes looks Steve up and down sidelong, almost comically so for all that his head is in Steve’s lap. “Your girl a looker?” he asks.

Steve shrugs tightly. “I suppose. She left to go dancing with someone else, didn’t care for the Expo.”

Barnes grunts and closes his eyes again. “Her loss. You ship out the next morning? We might’ve been on the same boat.”

Steve closes his eyes too, just for a second, because the thought of Barnes being one of the guys on deck who catcalled him and the girls, or worse, one of the guys who fucked Steve at the pro station as soon as they landed, hits just a little too close to home right then. “No, I—signed up that night, at the Expo recruiting station. They sent me up to the Bronx for training, I shipped out two weeks after that.”

“Pretty short for boot,” Barnes says.

“It wasn’t bootcamp, they don’t send auxiliaries through boot. It was just—training, some medical exams,” Steve says. “I didn’t even see a gun until I’d shipped out.”

Barnes doesn’t say anything to that, and he’s quiet so long Steve thinks he must have fallen asleep. Steve’s halfway grateful, because he really doesn’t have any stories, none that someone like Barnes wants to hear. They’d have never been friends in Brooklyn, not least because guys like Barnes don’t look twice at guys like Steve in Brooklyn except to laugh at. Not that Steve especially wants to think about that, thoughts chasing around too loud in the forest going night-quiet around them.

“You ever regret it?” Barnes says after a while, his eyes still closed, startling Steve out of his self pity. “Ending up here?”

Steve fiddles with the cuff of his coat. It’s one of Barnes’ dangerous questions, wrong no matter what Steve says. If he regrets it, he regrets this thing that’s been festering between them for the past few weeks; if he doesn’t, he’s like those rouged boys down at the Navy Yard that guys like Barnes only see to sneer at and fuck.

Steve rolls it around in his head too long, because what does he say to that. Of course he’d rather be a soldier. Of course he wishes he was someone else, someone a guy like Barnes could be friends with instead of—this, whatever this is. That he was never going to be just never used to hang so heavy when Steve only had to be seen by guys like Barnes for fifteen minutes at a stretch.

“My dad was a soldier, wounded at Argonne,” Steve says eventually. “I just thought—I wanted a chance to serve. I guess I got it, even if it wasn’t the way I thought.” Nevermind that it’s nothing like being a soldier, that his father would be ashamed if he knew. It was the only way Steve was ever going to serve, so there’s no use regretting it now.

Barnes grunts at that, eyes closed. Steve can’t tell if it’s what he wanted to hear.

Barnes goes quiet so long Steve thinks he must surely be asleep, his breathing quiet and even, barely audible under the sound of dripping branches and quiet movement in the underbrush, Steve’s nerves flayed near breaking.

“I used to regret it,” Barnes says, quiet in the dark. “Thought I was going to die at Azzano and I was halfway glad of it.” He laughs bitterly, dry and soft, putting a hand up to grope for Steve’s cold fingers, squeezing too hard like he’s making sure Steve’s still there. “Then they sent us back out like big goddamned heroes, when we were just the ones too dumb to die when we should have. I regretted the fuck out of getting drafted, and regretted the fuck out of living through it.” He opens his eyes, looking Steve up and down. His eyes are a flat, watery grey in the dim light, searching Steve’s face for something. He either finds it or he doesn’t, closing his eyes again, settling. “But then I met you.”

Steve sits with that, alone in the dark as Barnes finally dozes.

* * *

They don’t freeze to death in the night, but only by virtue of Barnes taking watch near full dark and bullying Steve to lie wedged between him and the shelter of the stone face. Steve wakes up stiff and cold in the creeping pre-dawn despite Barnes’ feverish heat, but they both still have all their toes when they hobble to their feet. The rain’s stopped, but it’s cold enough there’ll be frost by nightfall and them with icy clothes if they don’t get under cover.

The muscles of Steve’s back burn and cramp as he gets to his feet and helps Barnes to his, Barnes leaning against a tree with a pained look as Steve kicks down their little makeshift shelter.

“After we get out of this, you’re gonna ask Carter to marry you, right?” Barnes says as Steve gets Barnes’ arm over his shoulder and takes his weight, Steve near stumbling under the question.

Steve’s ears ring in the quiet forest, his chest tight from the cold and Barnes’ weight and the pain of sleeping out. “You hate Carter,” Steve says when he catches his breath.

“Well,” Barnes says, shifting, wincing as he adjusts his weight against Steve and they take a tentative step. “Doesn’t matter what I think, the way she looks at you. You don’t marry a woman like that when you can, someone else is bound to.”

Steve hasn’t got the breath to say anything to that, much less an answer. He can feel the cold in his chest, the tight, whistling wheeze of a wet, coughing fever building in his lungs. Barnes’ weight keeps him warm as they limp along, avoiding the distant rumble of tanks or armored cars, hobbling slowly south with Barnes sweating and cursing every time they have to go around or over a downed tree.

They spot an old hunter’s blind to shelter in for the night, open to the wind but better cover than they’d have otherwise. It takes them an hour or more to make the uphill climb to it, Barnes white as a sheet when they finally make it.

Barnes sleeps through the night this time, after Steve makes him eat one of their handful of dextrose tablets and K-ration biscuits, leaving Steve to the sound of his own whistled breathing. Steve reloads his pistol and lays it out next to him again, holding his silk handkerchief up in the dim light to squint at it. They made it six or seven miles, and maybe five or six the day before, the emergency rendezvous point still twelve or fifteen off. If they’re even going in the right direction.

Steve spends the sleepless night trying not to think about the possibility he’s walking Barnes back to German lines.

Barnes doesn’t bring up Carter again in the morning, or anything else, and neither does Steve, the two of them setting out in grim silence.

Between Steve’s building cough, the terrain, and what feels like Barnes’ clammy cold fever, they make barely four miles that day, both of them shaky when they creep into the shelter of a collapsing little house, mice rustling through the leaves drifted up in the corners. Barnes takes watch first, so dead still as Steve tries to sleep that Steve worries Barnes might have a concussion after all. But Barnes pets Steve’s hair and shoulder restlessly after he thinks Steve’s fallen asleep, distracting himself or making sure Steve’s still there.

* * *

It’s getting towards nightfall on the fourth day when they realize they’re being followed, an indistinct noise just off to their left. Barnes taps Steve’s hand and points into the trees, but Steve doesn’t see anyone when he follows Barnes’ gesture.

They put their backs to a copse of trees with a clearing between them and the shadow; Barnes can barely stand, but he gestures at Steve for his pistol anyway. Steve shakes his head and eases Barnes down to sit. If they had Barnes’ rifle, maybe, but he’s a clammy, sickly grey and Steve can’t shoot propping him up. Steve stands next to him, turning his good ear towards the shadow and trying to follow it, pistol ready.

Steve finally sees the shadow, heading straight for them as Steve brings his pistol up, heartbeat kicking so hard he won’t make the shot if he has to, but the shadow resolves to—Carter, in trousers and cap with a rifle trained on the both of them like she’d been unsure of them too.

“ _Steven_ ,” Carter says, dropping the barrel of her gun. She crosses the clearing in three steps and kisses him full on the mouth, hands on his face in front of Barnes and God and everybody. She’s warm and real and relentless, kissing him like her life depends on it.

By the time she steps back, eyes still on Steve, Barnes is on his feet, leaning against a tree with his bad leg kicked out in front of him. “Nice to see you too, Carter,” Barnes says sourly, hopping over to put a hand on Steve’s shoulder for balance while Steve’s still catching his breath.

“They said over the radio—I thought you’d been lost,” Carter says to Steve without a glance at Barnes, running a warm hand along Steve’s unshaven cheek and jaw. It’s unbalancing, having both their hands on him at the same time, both of them possessive. There’s something wrong with Steve, that a dangerous little thrill runs through him from it. “Are you hurt?”

“No ma’am,” Steve says. He hurts all over and he can barely breathe, but he’s not wounded. “Just the sergeant.”

Carter looks Barnes up and down then, the two of them exchanging a look Steve can’t quite read. “Right,” Carter says after a moment. “Off we go, then.” She swings her rifle around to her back and swings one of Barnes’ arms over her shoulders, Steve still on his other side. Barnes grunts a protest but doesn’t say anything, and then they’re off.

* * *

The guys crowd around Carter and Barnes at the emergency rendezvous point, only a few miles off of where they’d been. Steve watches from the fringes, hands shoved in his pockets as Morita undoes Steve’s field splint and Barnes passes out from the pain. The guys aren’t in much better a state, Jones with bloody bandaging over one eye and Monty with his arm in a makeshift sling, Dernier and Dugan limping with blood on their jackets. Morita looks about the best of all of them, but even he’s got burns along one side of his face and across one hand, like he caught the muzzle flash of an artillery piece.

After Barnes, Morita takes about three seconds to check Steve over, and then Steve’s shuffled off to the edge of camp when it’s clear to everybody that Steve’s the only one with not a scratch on him. No one says a word to him, but they don’t really have to. Steve picks a relatively dry spot out of the way of all of them and keeps his eyes down when Dugan tosses a can of beans at him. With Barnes’ and Steve’s packs both gone, there’s not enough tents to go around, so it’ll be another cold night in the open, for Steve at least.

Carter takes one look at Steve settling in to eat his can of cold beans and picks her way over to him, Dugan and the guys watching her go, clustered around Barnes. Steve blushes, because this is somehow worse than her seeing him get fucked by all of them.

But she just sits next to him and starts in with her own supper, the silence halfway comfortable except that Steve can hear the guys muttering that they shouldn’t have let Barnes take him as a spot.

It’s true enough.

At true nightfall, Carter puts up her tent at the edge of their little camp, right where Steve had been shuffled off to, and she stares down Dugan when he looks like he’s going to say something about it. Behind the bare privacy of canvas, she offers Steve a change of her dry clothes for his damp, bloody and mud soaked clothes, and he could near cry with gratitude that she didn’t say it in front of the guys. When he lies down in dry clothes that smell like her, he puts cold-chapped hands on his face and tries to control his breathing. The cough syrup’s gone and the guys don’t need Steve’s coughing to bring the Germans down on them again.

* * *

In the morning, Carter’s wrapped tight against his back, but she doesn’t say anything when Steve struggles out of her dry clothes and into his damp clothes. Even if her trousers and sweaters are men’s clothes anyway, he doesn’t need the guys to see him wearing women’s clothes.

Steve helps Carter get her tent packed away and then goes to help Monty, struggling to fold his and Morita’s one handed as Morita checks over Barnes. But Monty shrugs him away, giving Steve the cold shoulder without saying anything.

“You okay?” Barnes calls from where Morita’s checking the bandaging over his chest.

Steve takes a step towards him, but Dugan shoulders him out of the way, ostensibly packing up camp. Steve tries to side step out of the way, circling around to Barnes, but Dernier snaps something at him, near bowling him over as he carries the radio pack.

Steve backs off to the edge of camp with his hands stuck in his pockets. He did almost get Barnes killed.

Carter comes to stand next to him after she’s got her own things packed, watching the guys with her lips pressed thin and her arms crossed over her chest.

“The SSR’s putting together another forward unit,” Carter says after a while, watching the guys move around Barnes and Barnes scowling at them, unable to get up with Morita fussing over him. “Based on your notes and what we think happened to Barnes, they’ve made a—they’re calling him Captain America, their man Hodges. I could have you transferred to his unit, but—he’s not a good man. I’d like to, if you were willing, put forward your name for the program.”

Steve shakes his head. “Why not you? Why not Barnes?” As though the idea is any less laughable than _Stevie Rogers, secret agent_.

Carter gives him a long, level look. “Barnes and I are—pragmatists. What this war needs is an idealist.”

Steve glances at Barnes, at the guys, at the ground. He’s not much of an idealist anymore. “I’ll think about it,” he says to the mud as they start to move out.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 - 3. Steve/Bucky, Steve POV, WW2  
> 4\. Steve/Bucky and background Steve/Peggy, Bucky POV , WW2  
> 5\. Steve/Bucky, Steve POV, WW2  
> 6\. Steve/everyone, Bucky POV, WW2  
> 7\. Steve/Bucky, Bucky POV, WW2  
> 8\. Steve/Bucky, Bucky POV, 1949  
> 9\. Steve/Sam, Bucky POV, 1955  
> 10\. Steve/Bucky, Rumlow/Steve/Bucky, Bucky POV, WW2  
> 11 - 13. Steve/Bucky, Steve POV, WW2  
> 14\. Steve/Bucky, Steve POV, immediately post-war  
> 15\. Steve/Bucky, Steve POV, WW2  
> 16\. Steve/Bucky, Bucky POV, WW2, rape  
> 17 - 26. Steve/Bucky, Steve/Peggy, and eventual Peggy/Steve/Bucky, alternating chapters Steve and Peggy POV. Overlaps in timeline with ch. 4 and 7 of Bucky's POV.


End file.
